bites

One week before the first bite, I met the devil in a sandbox. I scooped him up with a red plastic shovel, and he hissed. From then on I steered clear, remaining for the most part under the thick wooden beams of the playhouse, in the shade with the mud-cake children. One of them was determined to dig out his brain with a straw, and it was when I refused him this pleasure that he lunged for me, taking a chunk near my armpit. The doctors treated me for rabies. That is my recollection, anyway.

And then she bit my ear, softly at first, almost unnoticeably, but she was unsatisfied and began to press harder, she wanted to tear the flesh, and so I threw her down and waited for her to relax, then I sat on the sofa next to her and watched some TV a while before she had her teeth in my scalp. There was an intellect to it, the devouring of brains, not just the blind lust of zombies, though that was not completely absent.

It was completely dark in the tent, and despite the netting, we were kept awake all night by the sounds of hands slapping ankles and necks, fingernails scratching dry skin, frustrated breathing.

I once wrote a poem in which I devoured you. I thought it was a clever way to talk about what it must be like to love me. To watch yourself being slowly broken down into nutrients and absorbed. I never wrote the end. Three hours on the toilet. It didn't seem beautiful.

The devil is small and pink with white teeth and no eyes, in case you were wondering.