Sex at the Butcher

 Nothing but the skeleton that my skin and tendons hang on
My bony hanger that supports a heavy coat

The hanger tips

Pills can’t erase the irascible sensation I feel in my heart

Of acid slowly burning and chewing through this aged carcass

That they all think is alive 

It moves like a marionette

Forced into contortions from another’s hand

What a good job I’ve done in selling it!

Stamping a high price on rotting meat

Like it’s worth anything

Strings have bound it into something package-able

And I wonder why I wanted them to come off

What would I do then?

I think I bought their lie too.

That my blood to them was more than a meal

That my pain made them feel something too

I am a lamb in a butcher shop