I am a book written in my bones.
If you crack them open, you can taste the story of my double-helixed soul.
But only when you extract my marrow with your tongue,
Slurping it all onto your palette,
Rolling it over in your mouth,
Letting to slide down your throat,
Rather than merely waiting
For it to drip out
And splatter into a bowl.
You have to
To get at the most nectarous parts,
The parts that ooze ambrosial mystery.
Push yourself into me,
And consume the stories branded inside my bones.