Skimt's Marrow

Like chopsticks in pudding,
I stab your brain:
dicting, convoluting
your womb’s remain.

I’m squaring the circle;
bygone’s a week.
With a wish and a woo,
somehow you speak.

You love it, I know you.
It’s time to eat.
Chopping and slicing, we
start with your feet.

Chew, swallow, down you slide;
my gut is full.
But looking down, I see
that I am you.