i loathe to be touched by you -
your breath, knife-edged
sharp side digging into my neck
as you prepare the feast

i'm dead, under your blade
that slices endless cuts upon me
my skin, a canvas, knife - brush
gently carving into me 

the cruelest mistress, she
who scorns my skin into bloodied marks
that echo with trembling taste
her tastebuds tingle with my flesh
as her mind mourns the loss.