You talk about your past lovers like cuts of meat;
The ******* on this one, the thick thighs on that one, the firm *** on the other.
You call them Chicken, Cow, Pig.
You call me Dear.

I walk into your abattoir  of my own accord
and tie myself to the gambrel,
ask you to slaughter me, please, slaughter me.
Always the slaughterer, never the slaughtered,
I want to know what it feels like.

You do as I ask: strip away my skin, slice open my chest, remove my vital organs.
You have to separate my consciousness
from my carcass
to finish.

I am venison, fresh.
You mount my head on your wall
next to the others and
shut my eyes.