Cannibal Love.

Cannibal Love is not a love story—it’s a feeding. A slow, intimate devouring where devotions wear the mouth of a predator, and tenderness lingers with teeth. This is what happens when desire starves long enough to become dangerous. It’s what happens when devotion slips into obsession, and desire turns carnivorous. This tale sinks its teeth into the question: What does it means to be consumed in the name of love—and what grows back in the hollow? Told in the confessional voice of a woman, both victim and predator, Cannibal Love is the first bite in a series of intimate horror romances where lust becomes language, pain becomes memory, and some lovers are better left… uneaten.

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You said you wanted to keep a part of me.

I thought you meant a hoodie, a necklace, a name you’d call no one else. I thought you

meant a memory—something romantic, small, a poem written in past tense. I imagined

you clutching a keepsake in your mouth like prayer.

Not hunger.

But you kissed me like you’d studied how soft flesh gives. You bit like you were testing

the weight of my soul on your tongue.

And I loved it.

I let you linger. Let your mouth write bruises into my skin like gospel. Let your teeth

teach me that desire and damage can live in the same breath. You made pain feel like

the price of being wanted.

And I—I always pay in full.

I mistook possession for devotion. Thought your bruises were protection marks.

Thought it meant something when you tucked my hair behind my ear after choking me

breathless.

I said I loved you.

You said, Good. Stay tender. I like you best that way.

First, you took my voice.

Not in a single night, but slow—soft silencing that snuck in between the moans. You

made me forget how to speak unless it was your name or a sound that pleased you.

You rewarded quiet with closeness. Gave me kisses when I nodded and distance when

I questioned.

So I became an echo. Something pliable. Pretty. Useful.

Then you took my sleep.

You moved like a shadow—never quite gone, never quite still. Sometimes I’d wake up

to the sound of you pacing, or laughing at texts you never let me see. I started

dreaming in red. Started flinching when my phone lit up after midnight. My body

learned to stay alert even in stillness.

Then, you took my name.

You stopped saying it. Replaced it with pet, thing, good girl, mouth. I let you. I liked

how ownership tasted coming off your tongue. I liked the cage of it. The leash. The way

you made me feel small enough to fit in your mouth, but big enough to ruin you if I

wanted to.

And I wanted to. But I didn’t.

Instead, I crawled deeper. Called it intimacy.

Let you gut me slow.

You told me the heart was the sweetest meat.

I laughed. A little. Nervous.

But you didn’t.

You looked at me like you were measuring how much of me was left to consume. Like

love was a bone you were preparing to suck dry. And I—fool, romantic, addict—offered

mine anyway. Still warm. Still beating. Still fucking hopeful.

You smiled. Took it with both hands. Bit down like it was yours.

I felt the snap before the pain.

I didn’t even scream.

By then, I’d been emptied so many times, I mistook the silence for peace.

Now I walk through the days echoing your name under my breath, a ritual I never

agreed to. I still crave the shape of you. Still dream of the way your hands became

knives, then bandages, then knives again. You left me raw. Hollowed out. Glowing with

absence.

But I’m not your victim.

I studied your appetite. Learned the rhythm of your hunger. I know which parts of you

ache. I know how to find the soft spot beneath the armor. I know what you taste like

when you’re begging.

And I’m starving.

Tonight I come not as lover, not as lamb.

I come as mirror. As reckoning.

You taught me how to feast. Now I bring the hunger back to you.

I want your cruelty. Slow-roasted. I want your gaslight grilled. I want your lies chopped

into confession. I want to chew the silence between your sentences until it screams

something honest.

I will not take your hoodie.

Not your name.

Not some stupid poem in a drawer.

I want your tongue.

Your secrets.

Your ribcage, cracked open like a vow you forgot how to keep.

I want to eat the part of you that thought I wouldn’t survive.

Because you forgot something important, darling—

Cannibals don’t just feed.

They transform.

And I am no longer the girl you gutted.

I’m the mouth at your door.

The hunger that learned your name by heart.

The lover who bites back.

Bon appétit

xoxo, S.