When I am empty,
I gorge myself
on the remembered tastes
of all my lovers.
I can bite into
the saltsweat
of this one’s fear,
and breathe in
the whiskysmoke
of that one’s lust,
and fill myself
on the feast
of this one’s
adoration and devotion,
and feel less starved,
less hollow,
knowing my appetites
have been sated before,
and will be sated again.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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One Response to Feast

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Sing it, sing it, sing it.

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