cannibalism is romantic
People look at me weird when I tell them I find something oddly romantic in the idea of cannibalism. Not in the crude, literal act but in what it represents: a love so ravenous it shatters the boundaries of reason, of flesh, and what’s considered sane.
There’s something disturbingly beautiful about the idea of being wanted so deeply that someone would want to make you a part of them forever— not just through tokens or mementos, but through the most visceral form of closeness imaginable.
What deeper obsession is there than the yearning to make someone a part of you? What could be more intimate than wanting to sink your teeth into the one you love and keeping them inside you? And on the other side of that hunger— what act could be more devoted than offering up your own flesh and saying: take me, all of me, and let me nourish you even in ruin?
We speak of love devouring us in poetic phrases— burning glances, fluttering butterflies, aching limbs. But what if it wasn’t? What if being consumed was the truest form of love? What if to be consumed is to be worshipped in the most dreadful, sacred way— to be craved so utterly that even death would not end the hunger?
It’s terrifying but also beautiful.
Not because such hunger should be acted upon, but because it exposes a truth buried deep within the human heart: the longing to be known and desired completely. Not just seen, not merely held, but devoured. Not in violence, but in reverence. To be loved so fiercely that the boundaries between self and other are erased, undone, swallowed whole.
That, to me, is what makes the idea of cannibalism so strangely romantic. It speaks to a love we fear, yet secretly yearn for. A love that does not simply embrace,
but encloses
with blood-warm teeth and trembling hands.
