eyes of a stranger

I worship you.

Day to day I try to be cool about it. Like, I’m not spontaneously inventing poetry singing your graces, I’m just chopping onions. I’m not earnestly pledging my life and death to your slightest whim, and the lives and deaths of anyone whom your gaze should cross; I am, in fact, participating in a stupid game where we casually poke one another while we’re both doing something else, each trying to get the last touch in.

But yeah. I worship you all the same.

It’s a bit of a problem, in some sense. I frankly lost my soul to you but I could at least try to keep a sense of perspective. I mean, what if you’re abusing me? What if I should not, in fact, be helping guide some and perhaps eventually all of the great river of humanity down your endlessly gluttonous throat?

Heh. I find it very hard to take this topic seriously.

So when the taxi drops us off at home I, purely as an exercise, do my best to look at you with the eyes of someone not entirely under your spell.

You waddle towards the couch and collapse backwards onto it lengthways. Your dinner, poor Neamh whose soul is lready burnt away, never suffered in your gut. Her corpse is curled up beneath the heavy skirt of your belly fat. Your navy dress rides the swells and folds of your body, shaping but not seeking to hide anything. In the club you flowed and jiggled as you danced. Full of prey your fat ran and strained over a hidden boulder. On the couch that boulder lies in the middle of a smooth expanse, already degrading within the crushing hell of your stomach.

I am ridiculously turned on. This is going to be more difficult than I thought. You wriggle your feet on the arm of the couch and I kneel to unzip your boots. Footrub time.

Okay. Let’s look again. Your body… I can’t imagine finding fault with it. Anyone who does not see you and want to touch or become you is wrong in simple point of fact. When you allowed yourself to get lost in the music I felt a misting of sweat on your exposed back as you danced. But your scent is the spice of your perfume and, close to, the subtle spice all your own…

… Okay, when your boots come free a tiny heatwave carries humid foot-air with it. Maybe someone out there would be offended? But look how you wriggle your toes in your tights. There’s a tiny grin on your face. You are weapons-grade cute, even as a human being’s ribcage compacts down inside your gut.

I am uniquely unqualified for this job. Fuck it, you’re perfect.

So I look elsewhere. The crack of the ribcage was accompanied by a faint wince as bones reconfigured themselves and maybe a splintered end was guided too abruptly into place by a fleshy stomach wall. The collapse is followed by a wet belch that seems to take you by surprise: ~gl-khwoOurck~. As hot, moist air brings its report of acid and gore past your smudge-painted lips, I realise what I’ve been blind to.

You’re no perfect portal from living person to porcelain. That’s an ideal fantasy I sometimes project onto you. Instead your body must work at melting them down, endure great pressures and weights even if they’re not struggling. Once chyme, they stuff your intestines to bloatation. And once exhausted, how much shit must back up inside your system? It’s hard!

As I rub your feet I notice the signs. Your obliging prey actively glugs into your duodenum: I can hear her! And listen: that repetitive, slightly irregular grinding sound is caused by stubborn bones turning one another to powder, and causing you the occasional little pocket of discomfort that tightens your mouth. Acids neutralise calcium bone and the mouth of your paste-slick intestines disgorges deeper, fouler airs into your belly which must too reject them. Your mouth, altar and cathedral of both our desires, ejects these gasses as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Now that I’m looking I spot that little rock of your hips. Maybe you’re bashful or maybe it’s a habit, but you angled your immense behind to ease the passage of a fart, leading shock wave forewarning of the future emergence of your prey’s shattered remains. To put it another way: air lingering in your filthy colon, legacy of your previous meal, was jostled and pressurised by the load above. It squeezed along the pressure gradient till it spurted through your pucker and would have vibrated the canyon of your arse, had you not taken pains to avoid it. And we go on breathing like this is the most natural thing in the world: like a hidden sign of the hot biological swamp inside you didn’t just spill out like a whispered secret.

I catch the scent. You are comfortable enough with me that you don’t even bother to acknowledge it. I fail utterly to be disgusted; instead, I feel an old ache of jealousy at those whom you have mastered.

Beneath your flab, a machine-gun report of air squeezing past liquid squeezing past some obstruction. Your hands dig in where the discomfort lies. I move to the other foot.

See, here’s the thing. I worship you. In ten hours you’ll have twenty kilos of shit inside you and I worship you. If you ask me I’ll carry it away and clean you up. Your presence, your beauty, your hunger and greed take everything your body touches and sanctify it. I wonder, naturally, how far this goes, and find no limit. If it pleased you, if it made you happy, I would… fuck, I would be your toilet. I would stretch your anus wide and crawl inside till the suction took me. The sacrifice of innocents, their tear-streaked faces eclipsed by arse cheeks or teeth as I push them in… it should haunt me but it does not. Every violation makes me worship you.

“What are you thinking?” you ask, utterly derailing my train of thought. I startle back to the real world. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ I do not say. ‘You are a goddess and I worship you’ fails to cross my lips, though I mean it a thousand times over.

Instead my eyes fall down to the sexy puddle of relaxed belly fat, which currently is emitting a strained sucking gurgle where maybe a skull plate is damming up a slew of future-excrement, all beneath smooth and pale skin that hides every sin with a glowing sheen of unearthly beauty.

“I’m thinking it might be time for a tummy rub, my greedy Raven.”

Your eyes linger on mine a second as I shuffle to a position I can massage your middle. As my hands sink into flesh like warm dough I wonder: do you know?

I hope you know.