My Blind Wife
Once I had a wife who was blind, to her silent fate she was resigned.
Then... I sought to have my way, to hold her near, but she recoiled in sudden fear. She claimed I reeked of a rival's scent, that I was no longer her innocent. So, I forced her to trace my skin, to breathe in the ghost of my hidden sin. Defeated, she wept; she knew I was no longer hers to keep.
So, I simmered her for a feast, a dish for the woman and the beast. But the truth was a bitter fold: I had boiled the other until her porcelain turned to gold. She lay there, a babe in a gilded pot, though agony was the only grace she got.
I baked a cake, a bed of white, to shroud her in the velvet night. I pressed her into the cream so deep, where her ivory skin and the sugar sleep. That was the end, a final jest: the cake was her coffin, my gut her tomb.
My body was the earth for her grave, and the sewer the heaven for the life I gave.
Rest in peace, you piece of meat