SmokeLong Quarterly

Ever since I became a cannibal, I’ve kind of lost my appetite. It’s not that I don’t love human flesh. It has a rich, tender taste, salty and warm. The closest thing I could compare it to is pork, but it’s better than pork. There’s a dark, round mouth feel. It’s smoky, has endless variation. The light meat is sweeter, the dark meat less supple, more charged. It’s magnetic, satisfying. I just can’t bring myself to eat it.

It’s been months. Years? To say I’ve been losing weight would be an understatement. I disgust myself, is the truth. Skinny arms, skinny legs. A ribcage you could keep a bird in. My hair used to be my best feature: thick, brown, and rich. Now it’s brittle and thin. I find it in clumps in the drain. I throw it away with the cat litter.

Thing is, I used to be so appetizing. A real zaftig beauty. My breasts were like dough balls, nipples like little candies. My fingers and toes begged to be sucked on. Men bit and licked me, and not just during sex. Perfect strangers. In elevators, movie theaters. The backs of city buses in the middle of the night. They’d tell me they wanted to devour me. They’d tell me I was delicious.