Eat You Up by Laura Leigh Morris

The baby stares at the ceiling fan, content for the moment. I slump on the couch, afraid any movement will make her cry. My stomach growls. I can’t remember my last full meal. Days blur together. My mouth waters at the sight of her thigh rolls.

She grabs her toes, gums them, and I want a taste.

I sink my nose into the space between her jaw and shoulder, inhale, say, “I’m gonna eat you up.” I walk away before I do.

I pinch her belly, say, “You’re lucky I don’t take a bite of you.” I force myself to let go, but the skin is purple and bruised, a ripe grape.

In my fifth month as a stay-at-home mom, I nibble on her butt cheek, a morsel where no one will notice. Her mouth opens in surprise, but she doesn’t fight, doesn’t scream. The meat is delectable—pink and fatty. Marbled. I swallow. I am both filled with horror and sated in a way I haven’t been in months. Since her birth, I’ve been ravenous. Between feedings and diaper changes and screams that never seem to end, I forget to eat, forget to call friends, can only respond to her. In between her needs, I lay her in the bassinet, scurry to the kitchen, crouch in front of the freezer, and spoon chocolate ice cream into my mouth until my head aches. Still, flesh melts from my frame—my collarbones have become handles, my scapulae wings, my arms wishbones. As her flesh settles in my stomach, the spaces between my ribs become less hollow. When she suctions herself to me, I no longer feel the urge to peel her fingers back until they snap. I let her hold on, and when my ribs become visible again, I snack on another mouthful.

My teeth marks near the edge of her diaper, and I move to her toes, little chunks of nail so small they tickle as they go down my gullet. She giggles, her voice deeper and throatier than a baby’s should be, which makes me steal another bite. My legs feel less like chicken bones, and my exhaustion from solitary nights spent walking laps around the kitchen island lifts a little.

The sores on her butt and legs make visible my monstrous nature. I vow to stop. I chew the ends of her hair, desperate, but they give me heartburn, keep me awake late into the night, wondering where else I can snack.

I make snorting noises as I nuzzle her armpit, then sink my teeth in. Not too deep, just enough to get the salty taste of sweat mixed with the copper tinge of blood. Now, the sunken pit of my stomach, that place I used to sate in restaurants with my husband and coffee hour with friends, fills just a little.

“What happened?” My husband holds up her arm, trails a fingertip along the imprint of teeth.

I feign confusion, peer closely, say, “She must’ve fallen.”

He looks suspicious, inspects the bite marks again, turns to me.

I smile with closed lips, shrug.

He peers around doorways when I’m alone with her, tries to catch me out. Instead of nibbling on her fingers, I kiss them. My cheeks become more sunken. I retreat into myself, ignore texts from friends, use the baby’s nap as an excuse to stay home, claim croup to avoid an anniversary dinner.

At night, my husband snores beside me. I turn on a light, peel back the sheet, but he doesn’t stir. I look at his meaty legs, the chub that hugs his waist, the man boobs growing flabby on his chest. I should pack his lunch. Takeout with coworkers and dinners with out-of-town clients have made him fleshy. I consider peering down his throat, shining a light in his ears, searching for any hint of loss, but I pull the blankets up and turn the light off, feel my biceps shrink, my quads shrivel, my lats wither.

The next day, I ignore the tasty tips of her ears and pass her to my husband.

“You need to get out,” he says.

Later, “You’re meeting Sally for lunch tomorrow. A mom’s day out.” A gift, he says.

I tell him I don’t need it.

“You do.” He passes the baby back to me. I pretend her arms don’t smell like Christmas hams as the exhaustion deepens.

When she screams for me at 3 a.m. and fever bakes her flesh, I know I won’t be going back to sleep, that I will walk laps and pat her butt until her cries turn to whimpers, that I’ll have to cancel lunch with Sally. I hold her close, breathe in her scent. I take a small bite from the heel of her foot, but it’s too chewy, an overdone steak. I nibble along her clavicle, a chicken wing with too little meat. Still, I feel fuller, more robust. I sink my teeth into her calf, and the flesh is so tender and sweet it melts in my mouth. I start to feel sated for the first time since her birth. I pause, know I shouldn’t. Then, I take another mouthful. And one more.

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LAURA LEIGH MORRIS — Laura is the author of The Stone Catchers: A Novel (2024), a finalist for the 2024 Willie Morris Award for Southern Fiction and the 2024 Weatherford Award, and Jaws of Life: Stories (2018). She’s previously published short fiction and essays in STORY Magazine, North American Review, The Florida Review, and other journals. She teaches creative writing and literature at Furman University in Greenville, SC. To learn more, visit www.lauraleighmorris.com.

Art by MIRANDA KRAMER — Miranda is a primarily self-taught painter living in Manhattan. Her personal artwork is often centered around animals, striving to showcase their complexities and investigate the emotions they can trigger in us. She studied Digital Media Production at Tulane University and has a background in film production.