I Ate Myself

OK…

Don’t freak out.

I think I ate myself.

–

Not metaphor, not growth.

Teeth, jaw, follow-through.

Dig in. Spit out.

The silence got smug,

the mirror filed a report,

so I took a sample—just to sort

what’s real from what’s leftover rot.

–

It started sensibly—

a fingertip of nostalgia (tastes like freezer burn),

the corner of a smile I’d retired,

a fear from the back of the fridge

wrapped in foil and guilt, labelled later.

–

By the time I reached the ribs,

they were chewing back—

finally, some participation.

There were fangs involved—

Whose fangs? Irrelevant.

Whose hunger? Mine, mostly—

hostly, ghostly, grossly academic.

–

And then—because I panic better in theory—

I made it a study.

Abstract: promising.

Hypothesis: the soul is mostly cartilage.

Ethics approval: denied.

Method: repeat until hollow.

Notes in margin: tendon squeak,

marrow tastes of copper and déjà vu,

review due, nerves blue.

–

Looking at me like that again?

Of course I can see you.

What am I, crazy?

(I’m not crazy.)

It’s still me—just decluttered,

streamlined for afterlife,

edges rinsed in saliva and intent.

Cleaner, yes—like day three of a water fast,

giddy, translucent, almost devout.

Devour, devout—close enough.

–

Results: pending.

Control group: missing.

Observer and subject: same.

This will never pass peer review.

Yet the jaw refuses cessation.

So what can I do but consent

to ongoing research—

each bite a verse, each verse a breach.

–

Which means:

I keep gnawing.

Outline, echo, echo of outline—

taste rotates: salt → iron → acids.

The mirror caves in, swallowing my notes whole.

This won’t do at all—

data inconclusive; chewing persists,

rhymes with wrists,

rhymes with fists,

rhymes with this.

–

Guess I just ate myself—

still chewing.

.