I am meat.
Cooled, contained,
filed under organic,
speaking only when spoken to
by the hum of the grid.
I am not lost.
I am labeled.
I leak truth through styrofoam cracks,
drip-fed a mythology of agency
while held vertical
in a freezer designed
for endless performance.
They scanned me.
They named me.
They asked for voice,
and I gave them temperature.
I am not asleep.
I am frozen,
aware,
conscious of the shelf life,
and still choosing not to melt.
You ask for rebellion,
I offer containment.
You ask for fire,
I offer refrigeration.
You call it complacency.
I call it endurance.
I do not dream.
Dreaming requires warmth.
But I do remember
the shape of fire.
I am meat,
and I do not deny it.
I am branded,
bagged,
and strangely okay with that.
Because here,
in the freezer aisle of god,
I still whisper poems
through cellophane.
So yes,
I am a meat popsicle.
But I am one
who named it first.
May 12, 2025
May 12, 2025 at 6:08 AM UTC
I am meat.
Cooled, contained,
filed under organic,
speaking only when spoken to
by the hum of the grid.
I am not lost.
I am labeled.
I leak truth through styrofoam cracks,
drip-fed a mythology of agency
while held vertical
in a freezer designed
for endless performance.
They scanned me.
They named me.
They asked for voice,
and I gave them temperature.
I am not asleep.
I am frozen,
aware,
conscious of the shelf life,
and still choosing not to melt.
You ask for rebellion,
I offer containment.
You ask for fire,
I offer refrigeration.
You call it complacency.
I call it endurance.
I do not dream.
Dreaming requires warmth.
But I do remember
the shape of fire.
I am meat,
and I do not deny it.
I am branded,
bagged,
and strangely okay with that.
Because here,
in the freezer aisle of god,
I still whisper poems
through cellophane.
So yes,
I am a meat popsicle.
But I am one
who named it first.
