Eat What You Are by Jaiden Thompson

      Rudi Riet CC



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​Eat What You Are


I had a dream that you robbed me of my lungs. 

I laid in my bed pretending to die. You knocked on my bedroom window so gently & still it combusted like an elderly star; it had had enough. When the glass shards tore into me, I didn’t dare wince. I have learned to hurt silently like an ant put to death. Often, food goes unchecked before it is shoved into my begging mouth & I wonder if a crunch is a frightened ant being put out of its misery. One eats what they are. Perhaps you thought you were my lungs when you broke into my room, breathing ragged & beastly. You wore a stench I still can’t place; rot, but fresher? What sense does that make? Well, the smell was enough to make me gag, but I swallowed my disgust and stilled myself like a good corpse would do. 

You staggered towards my bed, like you only do while drunk because then I am beautiful. What am I now, babe? Show me. Show. And you pressed just a finger against my lips at first. A finger wet with soft rain, yet the downpour died years before you knocked. One finger became two, then a calloused hand pushing against me. I sucked my breath in. I sucked myself in until you removed your hand & called my name. Devorah? like a warning. Devorah. like a praise. How still. Your keen fingers ventured to my chest where they scratched & scratched before ripping through me so easily – like my flesh was merely a spiderweb. My blood, a million baby spiders fleeing the crime scene. & you dove into me for perhaps several years before a nail gets caught on the prize: a lung so overripe & fragrant. I wonder how long it had been in there. 

There was a whiny creak when you unhinged your jaw & I wanted to sing along, but I knew: I am just a witness. Like a bug in the corner of the room. So when you tore off a portion of the lung, I shoved aside a wince. When your tongue brushed against it, I clenched my teeth to prevent chattering. & when you brought your teeth to the organ, my entire body stilled. This means the room stilled. This means that for a moment everything was non-existent except the solemn marching of bugs, until finally my lung was slaughtered by your hunger. Your mouth explored me like never before. My lung told you of my needs before allowing you to swallow them whole. Your own flesh welcomed mine. & your teeth tore into my breath. Yes, my breath ripped open wider than a black hole until it was anew & a gasp was born. A gasp so bright that you & the bugs mistook it for the sun and scurried away into the night. So bright that I was led towards the morning, which gifted me with a fresh body & you beside me, devoured. 

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Jaiden Thompson (they/them) is a Black writer from Seattle, WA. They have work published in Diode Poetry, COUNTERCLOCK and Lumiere Review, among others. Their micro-chapbook, sympathy for the son, is forthcoming in Ghost City Press’ 2024 Summer Series. They are a Best Microfiction nominee, a four-time Best of the Net nominee, and a winner of the 2023 VSA Playwright Discovery Award. Outside of writing, they enjoy acting in plays and annoying their cat.