People aren't pieces of meat on a butchers rack.

Commodities to be swept past.

The scathing swipe of the left hand that sweeps past the cuts of meat only fit for a stew of **** *** and crap conversation.

The meaningless yet flirtatious swipe of the right hand which hopes to kindle a fire which doesn't lend to complete disappointment.

I'm not on a high horse,
It would be a lie to say I haven't tried it.

A bio with my finest non achievements.

The pictures of my face where the bags under my eyes are only a light shade of brown.
The forced smile beams without blinding completely.

You probably didn't look at my profile though.

I didn't look at yours.

We both motioned our hands to either the left or the right.

We're both pieces of meat in the same butchers shop.