Hunger

I don’t remember

swallowing the squid.

I must

have been very young

when it settled in my throat.

As I lay in bed,

grave-like in my stillness,

The squid reaches with one long tentacle

down through my chest,

through layer

and layer

of connective tissue and muscle,

winding downwards through ribs and then

back up to the underside

of my arm.

It searches for the right nerve,

and when it finds it,

it gives it a hard

pinch.

I inhale sharply,

and my arm extends across the bed.

My fist flexes open, searching

and hungry,

until I grasp what the squid

desperately wants.

Your hand,

lying next to me.

Limp,

like a dead fish.

I lock my jaw tightly closed

as the squid reaches up into my brain

and pinches my amygdala,

hard.

It opens its beak, my mouth,

and I stifle my panic as the choking pressure

grows until tears like ink,

drip down my temples.

It sighs as the saltwater seeps into

my hair, and begins to dry and crust,

disappointed.

I won't last much longer

if it keeps this up.

Soon, we'll both break.

Its suckers

will emerge through my flesh

and reach for you,

having grown

so desperately

hungry

for live bait.