The Meal

I told two men
half-naked on an overflown
bar’s ballroom, of
the cicadas I swallowed
as a small girl.

I told of crunch
and the last buzz of wings
against bone, of
listening as their families
mourned: in yelps.

I showed them my
canines, the knives of my mouth,
let them run their fingers
over the ridges,
the grooves
that make me now unsafe.

I tell them I have killed
and their hands change.
They do not fear

becoming exoskeleton,
do not see their limbs stuck like
bone scattered clean on hard wood
between my teeth.
Their hands say,
“Let me show you kill.”

They do not see themselves
dangered, but
I am rendered dirty teeth.

To light matches
within the meat of the wound,
I tell them I am killed
(and here is the meaning)
I tell them I am killed
and again,
their eyes see me
as cicada without her skin.

By Emma Bleker

Biography:

Emma Bleker is a 21 year old writer working for her English degree in Virginia. She has previously been published in Persephone’s Daughters, Cahoodaloodaling, Yellow Chair Review, Thought Catalog, Rising Phoenix Review, and Skylark Review, among others. She probably wants to be your friend.