The Green-Eyed Monster

Beware, for my appetite is hard to satisfy. Once I have sunk my teeth into you, savoured your particular taste, it is very hard for me to let go. Think of when you suck juices from the bone, relishing every last drop of roasted meat; or the times when you lick the plate, greedily, trusting that no one is watching, sauce dripping from your chin. That is like me, feasting on a most delectable dish: you. 

You do not need to be marinated, tenderised or steeped in spices, I enjoy you quite as you are; yet it is remarkable- your ability to flavour yourself to my liking: sometimes sweet, sometimes salty, always spicy hot. Oh yes, the dish you serve might seem slow- cooked, but passion is always the flame that roasts you in the end: basted in your own juices, I just turn the spit, watching the flames lick higher. 

Curse me if you will, mock me if you must, but I only gnaw on your bones because you tempt me. And like a dog with a bone, you know I must leap and grab, shaking you in my jaws.

Yes, you can say my appetite disgusts you, this frenzied feeding; but I am only such a glutton because you heap my plate ever higher. If I feast, it is only because you throw such rich pickings my way. I grow, fatten myself, on your largesse: the bounty of you. 

Scabs on your knees and scars upon your heart, I lurk in the shadows of your nursery, sniffing out the moment that is ripe for me to bare my teeth and bite. Your baby sister, silhouetted against the nursery window, wreathed in light. Your mother dozes in the rocking chair, the words of a lullaby stream from her mouth even in sleep; she rocks, and croons and kisses the little head. You wonder at this new picture: this peace, so smooth compared to the rough and tumble of time with you. At the door you watch, suddenly an intruder in your own home; knowing the interloper can’t enter, mustn’t break this peace as then noise, baby’s cries, will cut like glass. 

Scenting the air, I smell the musk of your mother's slumber, the baby’s sweet new smell: clean of the reek of age and pain and what you feel when I sink my fangs into you for the first time. You flinch, of course you do, and try to shake me off, but I clamp down all the harder. 

Look, I say, shaking you like the rag doll that used to bring you comfort. Look at how she holds her up to your father; look at how he is enfolding them both in his arms. Where are you in this golden circle? A dark shadow, cast out and forgotten. I bite until I feel your resolve snap, a broken wishbone, and then I know you’re a dish I can feast upon my whole life long. I eat my fill and lay you down, chewed, stripped clean, only able to lie there, staring up into my clear, green eyes.

But sometimes sweet treats can sicken; that first taste, like a candy kiss, can cloy and soon it is salty foods I crave. I wait my time, hunger growing, growling in the pit of my stomach, louder as the years pass. When I can wait no longer, I prowl to the pitch where you practise every week. Coach is handing out the accolades: best pass, best teamplayer and, the one you covet: man of the match. He walks down the line and stops by your best friend, shaking him by the hand, slapping him on the back. 

Stealthily, I latch onto your ankle and sink my teeth into your soft, pliable and welcoming flesh. And with a small whimper you let me feed; others go to the locker, get washed and changed, and you stand there- alone. I gorge and guzzle, while you watch him and the girl you long to talk to, a dancing moth around his flame. Yes, sometimes the salt you baste yourself in, week after week, game after game, night after night, streaming down your face and soaking your pillow, tastes sweeter than all the candy you can buy. 

But what is my particular favourite, you ask? Well as you’re a fellow epicure and you won’t let it rest, I’ll confess: steep yourself in spices, give it all a good cayenne kick, set my mouth on peppery fire, for I like a blast of heat the best. Passion. Yes, that is the marinade you should steep yourself in; ladle after ladle of thick oozing passion. And you, poor tender fool, that is just what you do.

Watching them kiss after he brings the cup home for the team; picturing them hand in hand, kicking up the leaves as the autumn wind lifts their hair and hearts. And as Christmas sweeps in, her snowy mantle wrapped tightly about her, you are roasting in the furnaces of hell. Lying down in the heat you radiate, I feed and feed, growing fatter than the goose and all its trimmings. Glistening with fat, I bask in the gluttony you permit me, my green eyes forever trained on you.

Indulged, I wax corpulent, rolling with my folds: a Falstaff with fangs. Still you toss me titbits: curled in your bed, picturing your lover, encircled by another’s arms. He is faceless, nameless, a fear made flesh which you feed me from your hand. We are never satiated, even when we walk down the aisle, turn and watch, with predatory eyes, the vision of your lovely bride. 

Regarding you now, more morsel than meat, like a thin scrape of butter on a meagre scrap of bread, I feel almost compelled to apologise on the behalf of others. Such a shame the family never comes to fatten you up, or that sporty friend doesn't pop round for a beer. And your wife? Well, perhaps the less said there the better; at least you can rely on me. 

Patting my head, I’m your trusty companion; no longer a loathed monster, rather a loyal pet, forever walking at your side.