I asked with blank eyes:
‘oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you wanted to eat me. I thought you just wanted to eat me out. but yes, alright, this makes more sense given our circumstances’
I always tend to forget my flesh is caramel sweet – oh so edible or so they say. Perhaps I should start charging, as most consumable items are not given away in capitalist markets.
And then I remember that I am made, in fact, of air – all taste and flavour is pretense, and I am a small particle of a free good, existing so much in abundance: the edible woman made from dust. Indeed, I taste more like clay and blood soaked earth and Madras heat, despite their fantasies – Yet they still trick my thighs into solidity, jaw into rigidity, but in the end, (tr)eat me like air –
And as yet there is no mark(et) for air.