I am not human. My hands dripping with ichor as I lift you to my mouth. My teeth, razors, against the flesh of your inner thigh, biting in and drinking you down. I feast on your body, spreading you open beneath me. Your arms twisting over your head, hidden in endless loops of silk. Your breath catching in your lungs, growing fainter with each pull of my lips.
My worship is your horror. I crave the taste of you on my tongue, the divinity of you sliding down my throat, to settle the monster within me. I crave you. The feast of your body settling within my skin, making me more human, with each piece I consume. In your entirety, I kill you to make myself real.
I am Grendel, and you are not even Beowulf. No, you are the sweetest sacrifice sent to appease my hunger. The temptation of meat to a starving stranger. Still, I miss you, each time I am forced to leave you for air. Each second parted from my meal, is an eternity of bitter aching. Insisting on following each tang of you that lingers. I will rip you open, with claws and teeth and blades. Anything to burrow into you, to eat my way into the place behind your lungs. To suck each drop of life from the dying form of your body, until there is nothing left but leather and silk.
My tongue hangs, half out of my mouth. Like some panting dog, drooling over a fresh bone. My jaws covered in pink tinted saliva. Gorging on fat and marrow, cracking open each rib to get another taste. A feral beast clinging to its last meal. Ripping through trust and safety, for food.
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