Cannibalism is a matter of culinary taste
and moral appetite.
Drinks arrive first.
Not to soften the act,
to rinse the mouth of hesitation.
You don’t begin with hunger.
That’s amateur psychology.
You begin with stillness.
The body is quiet.
Quiet makes everything efficient.
Skin parts
the way agreements do —
without ceremony,
without apology.
Blood shows up eager,
bright as a fresh opinion,
then learns its place.
It always does.
There is a towel.
There is time.
Urgency ruins flavour.
People think brutality is loud.
It isn’t.
It’s meticulous.
Knives and cuts are not emotional.
Emotion spoils texture.
Some muscles have spent decades
proving loyalty to useless systems.
They harden with pride.
You can taste the distaste.
The cuts don’t argue.
They remember being decided
long before they happen.
Hesitation introduces ethics.
Ethics introduce mess.
Waste is offensive;
not morally,
aesthetically.
The room smells of iron
and fresh obedience.
Heat behaves.
Metal listens.
Nothing theatrical.
Theatrics are for people
who still need forgiveness.
Everyone expects cannibalism
to feel forbidden.
That expectation is childish.
Like thinking blood should scream
instead of stain.
Flesh makes for a beautiful recipe.
It always does
when stripped of mythology.
Morality arrives late;
a thin aftertaste,
noticeable only if you’re waiting for it.
Choice of cutlery matters.
Presentation is the last lie
society still rewards.
There is no ecstasy.
No rupture.
No fall from grace.
Only confirmation.
Some people are ruined
by the idea of eating another human.
Others are ruined
by the realization of how easily it can be done.
The eating is slow.
Not for pleasure,
for assessment.
And the conclusion doesn’t announce itself.
It seeps in.
The problem with cannibalism
is never violence.
It is how many people
have been doing it their entire lives
without ever learning
how to do it properly.
Gods.
Governments.
Guardians,
and
Guillotine.
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