They birthed us into metal,
not light or even air,
but heat lamps and screaming steel,
the floor already coated
in yesterday’s version of ourselves.

We were slick and blinking,
wet with newness,
and still they stamped us:
Product of tradition. Best before death.

Hands in latex gloves
cooed lullabies
while scraping placenta from the drain.

They taught us to crawl
between cleavers,
to smile when we were handled,
to hold still when the slicing came
because it’s not personal,
because they love us,
because their hands hurt too.

They shoved their trauma down our throats
before we grew teeth.
Force-fed us their coping mechanisms
like communion
bite-sized bitterness
they called resilience.
Swallow it.
Say thank you.

We didn’t know any better.
Meat doesn’t ask why.
Meat just learns to stay warm
and pretend the hook isn’t coming.

They called the bleeding becoming.
Called the bruises bad days.
and the conveyor destiny.

We rotted in place,
but they sprayed us down,
made us presentable;
vacuum-sealed smiles,
shrink-wrapped hope.

The air always smelled like bleach and denial.

Some of us tried to scream
but by then our mouths were already full
stuffed with apologies,
with other people’s f*cking expectations,
with the same dull knives they said
they “survived” with.

And when we flinched,
they told us we were lucky.
Lucky we weren’t born into fire.
Lucky they only carved out
what they couldn’t understand in themselves.

Love, they said,
was just the sound of the band saw
getting closer.
No more, no less.

And still -
We line up.
We inherit the gloves.
We raise our children
beneath the same heat lamps,
and pretend
it’s destiny.

they never taste it
just name the temperature
call it healing when I rinse the wound
like I’m not just keeping it from festering long enough
to stay pretty

I let them near
not in
they cup their hands to the faucet
sip whatever slips through the cracks
and call it closeness
but they never stay long enough
to feel the sting

I swallow static
talk in softened sounds
bite down on my sharpened tongue
translate their language
before they can call mine foreign..
again

I bleed behind a smile
they call me safe
like I haven’t been carrying a fire in my throat
for years

sometimes I scream into a drain
just to hear what doesn’t echo back.
sometimes I open my mouth
and it’s all salt
and no water.

I’ve spent too long cleaning the mess
before they step inside
apologizing for the shape of me
before they even ask the question

now I gargle saltwater
until my voice is too raw to speak
until silence feels more honest
than telling the truth
to someone who won’t keep it

let them ask
let them knock
let them misname my ritual.
I’ll be in the quiet
spitting out blood
like it’s poetry
and still being called beautiful
for surviving.

She tells me, “You should have five kids with your face, you’re beautiful,” after she asks how many kids I want and I tell her I think I’m stopping at the one I have. I laugh, because I’m not beautiful.
But I feel seen.

She always calls me beautiful, and I know it’s not my looks. It’s my compassion, my bedside manner. I ask about her day and sometimes I tell her about mine.
She says they don’t talk to her like I do—and that makes me sad.

She’ll tell me about her granddaughter while I prep my supplies, and I’ll remind her to go easy on the girl while I flush her tube.
Her daughter pops in. She knows me by name, wears a look of relief because I’ve already done oral care and tucked her in for the night.
While I clean up, her daughter tells me about her week.
They both say they wish I worked through the week.

I’d like to stay longer, but I’ve got two more rooms.
So I say my goodnights and push my cart along.

She’s on hospice. I know how this goes. I’ve been through this before.
But when she goes, I will miss her.
I’ll hope she finally gets that Bud Light she’s been asking for when she crosses over.
And I’ll think of her every time I prep that room for a new patient.

Feeling the rain more than hearing it
6:24 dark and threatening
It’s so cold in this ******* basement

2 hours and 36 minutes away
Crouching in plain sight
The work day.

Delivering food for the food bank, which is punk as **** frankly,
It’s a wasteland out here
And people need to eat

(A human right, if I understand the constitution correctly. Happiness is a lost pursuit in a body that’s hungry. You say food is a privilege <yes, you said it and believed it>, I say it’s life and liberty.)

Two 15 pound bags at a time
In exchange for baggage a mile high
Stacking cred against labor to build tone in your thighs

My joints wonder how young I think I am
Remembering the time my leg seized up and that old man just stared until I saw him see me and I smiled, I’m so silly

Hurry before all this pain ripens to taste
Slug it down like tequila
Try not to make a face
Born at the finish line, running in place.

2 hours and 26 minutes to make the coffee and absorb the caffeine
While I’m still me
And there’s nothing else to be