Stick a fork in me and tell me I'm done.
Tell me my only purpose now is to be
carved open and served on fine china,
Tell me now is my time.
They plan to eat me alive.
I can already feel them
gnawing on my bones like toothpicks
after the first course,
and washing down their disgust
with my blood, still warm,
like sun tea sitting in the window
on a hot August day,
except maybe a little thicker
in consistency and a little more
bitter in taste.
Old soul, flesh and blood
doesn't stay fresh long, eat me.
Smile and nod at dinner table conversation
as you choke down every headache,
every bad decision I've ever made.
Things like that call for a little extra meat tenderizer, don't they?
Spending hours making me more appealing to the pallet
only to make me look like roadkill.
Sunken in, glazed over highway eyes,
always staring straight ahead,
never to change.
Served on a sliver platter with a puddle of blood under me,
make sure to serve bread to sop up all the mistakes, imperfections, monotony.