‘Lamia’ by Amy Blythe

He carved into me,
deft at wielding
the blade, practised at
taking only
what was needed
nothing went to waste
he gave me survival,
allowed my life,
a god of his own
shaping, sharp, unyielding,

he taught me quiet
and how to like the taste,
shared secrets and
pled with treacherous oaths.
I was filled,
the filling made me
complacent, it made me
complicit. I clung to it,
I ate it up.
I wanted to. I wanted

and I stayed,
I stood in dirt and saw
my becoming,
time to turn
prey to predator
eye to eye
teeth to teeth
bite for bite,
to keep him
in the mud, tangled

in a blanket
of his body’s
strings. I am altar
I am solemn tongue,
I shed my skin,
watch it unpin,
mesh muscle
to muscle.
Time to eat,
more, more, more.

From issue #9: autumn/winter 2019

About the Author
Amy Blythe graduated from Queens University Belfast with a Masters in Creative Writing. She has previously been published in The Stinging Fly, Crannóg, Skylight 47 and more.