I read somewhere
that you could bite off your own pinky finger,
as easily as biting a baby carrot in half.

We think that we’re resilient,
miracles incarnate,
but we are just bones waiting to be crushed between each other’s teeth.

We are waiting to be
plucked peeled battered baked fried mashed
into something unrecognizable,
something that someone
will look at and say,
“that’s too beautiful to eat.”