This is the scene

in that artsy movie

you always wanted to see

where you,

in B&W,

rip open our chests with

dull butter knives

and we can see, in the

pitch theater, the two

beating hearts and faux chest

cavities dyed in deep blood.

I begin to lick the life

from your lungs as

if I need your air

to breathe the sight

before me. And I cringe, but

you stay steady, watching as

the Coke and popcorn floor melds

itself to the grooves in

your boots. I go for

your hand (the one

with the knife) but

you pull away, sinking deep

into our black puddles. The

theater smells like the movie

tastes on the tongue: vile

and warm. (But maybe

salty.) You

crunch the bones like

ice from your drink, and

I gasp in what I want to be

ecstasy. Your foot, with

a sticky thwack, winds its way

around mine, our laces

an orgy and on the

screen you see me dive

at your throat and rip like

all I need is more of you inside

me. Your head finds my shoulder

before I shield my eyes, before

my stomach turns, and I feel

your breast breath on my

arm. And you look at me, a

smile before returning your

gaze to the screen. Us,

drenched in the hunger for each other.

You breathe deep and crunch on

ice, watching me devour you.

Andrew Walker teaches English in Fort Collins, CO. You can find his nonfiction in the Two Cities Review, Crack the Spine, and The Blotter. You can find more of his poetry on Instagram @adwalker94.








Andrew Walker



February 2018

Produced from 100% Everything

Literary Juice

Big Top Capitalist Pee Wee. Photography by Brett Stout.