I will punch your phalanges
I will lick your diaphragm
Until it is soft enough to be smoothified
With crunchy bits inside
Made from your vertebrae
My molars rape their unliving crusts
And turn them in to intestines to love
Your heart leaves chunky blood clots on my face
Where I rip off the flesh above your spleen
I slit your eyelids to make paper sheets
To decorate the scene of your skinning