In the belly of the monster, there was sheer darkness. Against the silk of his organs, drowning in the churning blood of his cavities I found myself being digested against my will.
The air was heavy, toxic with the taste of my roiling black flesh – hydrogen sulphide on the skin charring it to an angry black mass.
Somewhere I dimly recall my 8th grade chemistry teacher explaining the dehydration reaction involved.
They had told me, sometimes my mind might wander, but against the sharp pain I must focus.
The acid burns, but not as much as the smell of flesh burning in the mucous lined undulating ground against my back.
I am biting, clawing at the flesh which tears away on my rotting fingernails, angry gashes that are scars of pleasure they say.
I am burning, my skin shimmering as the internal combustion takes on a chain reaction.
I am a nuclear reactor without control rods, giving more than I should, tearing you asunder unless you force in me, magic wands that suck my soul out.
Is there fire in the belly of a dragon? The anger you breathe out, it scorches more when it is trapped inside me.
Nothing, but a hollow burnt husk, toasted by your warmth and burnt to crisp, like a miniature bread in a giant’s toaster.
You gazed at my reflection, my soul travelling up your spine and into your eyes. We are one, now that you have swallowed my consciousness whole.
“What kind of man, loves like this?”- Florence & The Machine.