Jane-Rebecca Cannarella

Anthropophagus Means Cannibal or Man-Eater

My desire is a cannibal. It’s a tiger standing on train
tracks with the baying of the air horn begging
me away. I’m a rickety overpass and my longing is a compass
driving me toward open bodies with split apart ribcages and I want to
live inside of them. This guy and I are cannibals connected to bodies
functioning off of remorse – “no thanks, I don’t want any of your
melted ice cream,” I say as we bump knees on
his bed that’s also a couch watching X-Files
together. I’d prefer him to stop rustling his own hair and rhapsodizing
the grandeur of his self, I mean he’s no
Fox Mulder, after all. But I’m flesh and he’s flesh and the
meat of my mouth is going to drain him, and it does.
I’m an entire person who eats others to fill
my insides. I’d like to chew on the bits of his
body where decency lives, maybe on the inside?, but I’ll still settle on
the outside parts. If he ate the inside parts
of me, he’d find hidden stuff like how I’m an adult
but how, like a kid, I’ll hold onto my
old stuffed animal and cry sometimes.
It’s hard to be a lonely grown-up kid and a cannibal at the same time.
And this guy could see that with 1stbite; he’s
an emotional wendigo – but not so keen for me. I do
all the eating, and after we fall asleep on the bed-couch
in the cadaver yellow light of a late night / early AM. When I go to examine
my face upon waking, I like the way I look having fallen asleep with a wet face
and makeup still on. I stand silently at his sink while he’s asleep, in
the mirror my face is tracked with acid rain. I’m a
golden mystic of 2 AM tater tots – devouring them with
the blood of strange boys in strange homes. Hungriness is like how prophets
saw the prophecies in the smoke of poison fires. In the home of this also-cannibal’s, I
can guess the man-eating-mistakes awaiting us in future fires.
The previous past is painted on my morning cheeks, my cheeks are apples under
taunt stretched freckles. I wish the boy in the bed would
take a big bite out of them and then we could
be fortune telling flesh eaters together. But cannibals can’t also
be carcasses, and seeing beyond sight isn’t for duo man-eaters.
Before I leave, I study his sleeping body – a steak in a case – ,
the sheet is a skin shedder – a reptile molting. Shifted off his shoulder blades – they’re sharp
as spears. I could pick the meat out of my teeth with
his daggery collarbones. Maybe modern day monsters can’t sync
like phones. So, I become a blank screen leaving as
a shell having digested what I came for – or what I thought I came
for. In wakefulness, he won’t remember me. We are concomitant
beasts bleeding out these brief memories – together but apart. Lonesome miseries, never stuffed.
Cars pass, but none are mine, I shift my feet and wait for
my getaway outside the butcher shop of the boy’s apartment. The wind lifts
my skirt like the sheets that you raise up into
sails – full blown. My body, forever hungry and next meal awaiting,
looks like a mailbox full of love letters.

One thought on “Jane-Rebecca Cannarella

  1. To: Jane-Rebecca
    From: A.Theist 💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌
    Just trying to get in there fore all those greedy sons of bitches 💋


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