You say you’re not
but you’re eating—
feasting
on yourself
and me.

Yourself, Dear—
your very own being.
Never mind the flesh of it all;
you’re gorging yourself
on your own identity—
that which I know
and have grown to love.
These are the dishes
of your morbid,
paradoxical
feast.

Me, Dear—
my spirit.
I love you.
So what is it then?
I love someone worthless?
What is it?
Is it that my love can’t uphold you?
Is it that I’m selfish in my love of you?
Stingy?
Is it that I’m failing you,
Darling?