(Content Warning: mentions of blood, death, grief, gore, kink)

This is a story about a woman eating her husband’s liver.

What I want to say here is: she ate the liver that was meant for her husband, then she went and found the woman next door, cut out her liver and fed it to him.

He said “oh yum its the best liver I’ve ever eaten,” and then they went to bed and the ghost said “where is my liver?”

The woman looked down and saw the gash in her belly, she had cut her Own liver out, ohfuck! She was bleeding in the bed while her husband slept on in the dark-wet-warm.

What I want to say here is that: there is no straight line to healing there is no quick fix.

I want to say: sex is intrinsically linked to our emotions and so much of our lives.

I want to say: I’m sorry for claiming more sadness than I feel like I deserved, I must not hurt as much as his motherbrotherfatherlover, I want to say: I hurt all the same.

I’m trying to say: it felt like this for me, did it feel like this for you? did-you-lose Someone too? did you go crazy too?

Because if you did I’m here,

if you did I understand.

I want to say that death is just a wound things grow around and that I Miss the way the world tasted back then, before life touched me like that, Cold Finger pressed to my Tongue; hurts like freezer-burn, tastes like freezer-burn, I want to say that I dealt with death through kink and addiction and recklessness and that there is No Shame in escapism, I want to say that When someone dies young, you realise there is nothing you can do to ward off death, When you are young and someone near you dies young THE WISHFUL PROPS OF OUR FUTURE SELVES DIE TOO.

The forgotten comfort of imagining our lives sprawling out ahead of us.

What I want to say here is: if you ever eat your husband’s liver, just go out and buy a new one.