"This Is Not About Him" by Aryssa Shultz
 

Has humanity exhausted all metaphors for jealousy? The pangs, nausea, knife-thrusts of clenched lungs; I want to know what it sounds like to dig my fingers into your chest, muscles squeezing tight as I feel for your bones. Trickling blood makes suction plops and greasy thucks. You will stare wide-eyed like a submissive waiting for command, as I push into you, four fingers knuckle-deep in your ribcage. Do you wonder how it would feel, to have me in you? Your slick muscles convulsing like a cunt, face flushed, sheen of sweat on your marble forehead. I curl my fingers and you can't help but step towards me. I bite the soft flesh of your bottom lip, chew on it like taffy until it dissolves into my mouth. I shove my hands into your sternum: bones crack as I fit inside you, a chrysalis. My wings form into the shape of your pelvis. My colors are dyed with blue bile, charcoal shit, red veins. When I am ready, I will spread out, you out, spread us out
and we will take to the sky, this grotesque love of ours.