He devoured me.
The purple-brown imprints of his teeth may have been hidden from the world under sleeves and tights, but his hunger walked with me the whole time we were together, carvings of cravings renewed daily in my flesh.
It began in my mind… either I had a premonition or he psychically tasted my unuttered fantasy. It was a visceral dream. I would hold out my hand, and he would sniff it. Then lick it. Then chew it apart.
We were a destructive combination. Together, we grew feral.
To the outside, we were a docile, bookish pair of neo-hippies. Outside, inside, any second of isolation, we'd tear up everything but violent desire. We would knock each other down, piss where we shouldn't, flash each other across coffee shops and libraries, jerk each other off in crowded movie theaters, have wholly naked sex outdoors—on city porches or in the woods, and screw secretly under jackets or blankets right in front of anyone… once even when sitting on a sofa with his grandmother.
We never discussed our deviance, and we couldn't stop it.
And he would bite my flesh bloody, like a starving dog.
At some point he told me that he would eat me when I died.
In motion, there was a silence… all senses retreated but touch and taste. But when we stopped, the buzz of humanity exploded upon us. We had lives before our mutual ignition, and they had been ignored until finally they roared back in.
It ended as abruptly as it started. It had reached the point that I couldn't eat or sleep, and he was vomiting all the time. In one moment, we stopped speaking, and our violent passion transformed into violent resentment.
We had been eating discord, and could stomach nothing else. I nearly starved to death by returning to whole.
Very quietly, my bruises went away.
With time, even sirens become whispers.
