“I could bring you a cup of tea or my ribcage.”
You’ll take the tea every time. The ribs don’t mind. They’re patient things. They’ve waited this long to be chosen. They can wait longer.
Besides, they know how this ends. The tea leaves will stain the cup. The ribs will stain no one. They’ve learned the hard way how to keep their mess to themselves.
The tea was always chamomile. The ribs were always yours. You just never asked what kind of hunger requires both.
















