We are cows grazing In our homes, Plump, People, Waists, Growing adding To a full middle line, We are nearly ready For the slaughter, It makes you think? Who's table will we be on...
I am of a strange alchemy. Iron and tarnished silver, with porcelain hands. The rest feels like glass. Fragile. Vulnerable. As though the smallest tremor could send me falling to shatter.