You must be starving,
your beastly belly never satisfied,
never satiated by the image
of a woman’s breasts;
not her neck nor her thighs
could quench your burning,
relentless, shameful tastes
for flesh.

Of course, you’re starving,
where could you run
when nothing would stop her desires,
her blood boiling, heart-aching desires,
for the body, you so brazenly touched,
to be the one thing to light you on fire;
her voice, amplified by all the innocents you touched,
calls out to the hunters who
stare into your loveless, ravenous eyes,
knowing that you will always be starving.