like the meat or like her fingers on my wrist?
are we being prepared for consumption or are we leading a revolution?
i will not be hung up to dry like the hind legs of a cow,
nor eaten by the hungry eyes of the men who love to watch us but would rip us apart the moment the camera turned off.
our legs don’t spread for your harsh palate.
you cannot flavor us. we are already seasoned from your abuse.
leave us to rot.
it’s better than spending one second in the stomach of a man who only knows love as he swallows it whole.