on meat

rare

bite me, she said, & i slid my hand across her body in search for the softest spot. delicately, at first. you’ve really never done this before? i had not. but she was tender & convinced me we couldn’t both be gentle, so i let a stranger’s blood paint my chin as if it were holy. it was holy, yes, & still i couldn’t stop my neck from twisting shamefully each time her breath grazed my skin, closing the way for any & all of the words that blossomed in my guts. i tried to get them out one more time after she fell asleep & realised they were already completely dry. for some reason, i could not find the strength to flush.

medium

she hadn’t brushed her teeth that morning, for she wanted to feel rotten. although it was not the first time she’d broken down over a piece of steak, it felt like a moment completely new. she stares at it again & once more. the fibers were aligned modestly enough for her to believe it when they told her it was cut from the legs & if the first bite hadn’t turned her tongue to silk, she might had thought it was true. looking at her rib & her plate at the exact same time, her teeth tasted red. within a couple of minutes, or a few hours, it was part of her, or, yes, she was part of it. a vulgar distinction, anyway. she was calmer after the lights were off, but it still took a good while to get the whole thing down her throat. she did not mind wasting time.

well-done

it is now dusk. i can tell by the way the wind hits the wall, completely unfazed by any pleas to turn around. it is dusk & i still haven’t moved, my eyes sore from examining the door, my back burnt from kissing the sunlight all day long, & i sit quiet, still unable to claim this tongue as my own, still with spit on my lips from when i watched it die. watched? gazed. yes, gazed. now my mouth is unclean & so it’s the baby bird, or what is left of it. the bigger bird has flown away, but i somehow know its mouth is perfectly neat. it was neat even with flesh on it. it was neat even with my whole body shivering as it devoured the baby bird. it was neater when i knew nothing would ever make me shake like seeing a body savour another’s last moments. i try to look at the corpse resting on the window. i think about wrapping it in a blanket & taking it out to the garden. gifting it a proper goodbye. it’s the least i can do, after all. the right thing, though it doesn’t feel like it. before i can attempt to get up, however, every inch of my body starts to burn. perhaps that’s what it wanted—to make me feel just like it did. & perhaps i should get up, or i should have, but my hands are matches & my throat is flame & my stomach is not empty & i know i will not. leave it to the vultures.

—

Clara Paiva is an undergraduate student at the University of São Paulo, Brazil. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Lunch Ticket, Maudlin House, Noble / Gas Qtrly, Occulum, and elsewhere.