I'm told foie gras will change my life.
That it's savory, exemplary
to die for.

Ironic.
Someone already did that.
A gavage in his throat...
plumped, fed,
suffocated by
his own fat
like an inflating noose
on an unwitting neck.

Ironic also that
his flesh inflates my girth
and feeds my gluttony.

"Stupid things...
don't even know they're dying."
Dying indeed.
A slow and painful death.
And how deserving of it, yes.
Stupid things.
Too stupid to recognize their plight.
After all, don't the stupid
deserve their fate?

Ironic how - to this day -
we still think we're so much
more evolved than
our forebears.

Evolution aside,
The Divine Rights of the Food Chain
still stand.

I do not understand it,
therefore it is less intelligent than I,
therefore I have the right to torture it.

I made it,
therefore it cannot live without me,
therefore I have the right to ruin it.

I own it,
therefore it is mine,
therefore I have the right to **** it.

Our strength grants us Divine Right, indeed.
May the kingdom prosper under our boots and be grateful, for
history has proven us such gracious and kind masters, after all.

Are we not?

They say home is wherever you lay your head at night
That must be true
because my former house has a lock on the door now;
a lock to keep me out.

I never realized this is how it is to be homeless,
the endless wandering of a place to rest at night
the endless cycle of hunger and
thirst and
protection

I walk out of work with not a place to be in the world
and if I’m being honest it should frighten me.

I am a wanderer.

I have no sense of direction,
no moral pull,
nothing to lose and everything to gain.

I have this endless feeling of discomfort and
an airy breeze where the good in my heart and soul should be.

I am a girl, not a very beautiful or talented one.

I belong to anyone who belongs to everyone.

Home is where I rest my head for a night.

Home is a backseat
Home is a smoke filled room at 2 am
Home is a parking garage
Home is a strangers bedroom

Home is a feeling rather than a location,
but those who have a lock and key and
a mortgage fee will never understand.

Yes it’s true, your face is quite the train wreck
Your musk drives the molded cheese to envy.
Everywhere you go, people always check
To see the trail of rotting behind thee.

When some person asks, “paper or plastic?”
It is not a question meant for your goods.
For your features are often so drastic
That the public cries out your need for hoods.

Yet a midst the rotting grapes of your eyes
And the corn husk hair on your peeling face,
Lies a certain beauty found deep inside.
It turns all to compost, nourishing grace.

Bananas are sweet, even with dull skin.
Like how your true flavor, is found within.

What do you do when you aren't hungry,
But you have to eat?

What do you do when that sustenance,
could mean life or death?

what do you do when you feel sick to your stomach,
But without it you may die?

Food.

Its something I need as a diabetic.

But what are you supposed to do,
When you cant even stomach looking at it?

What are you supposed to do,
When you feel like you may throw up?

Do I sit and wait? Or force myself to eat?
Either one is bad.

Forcing making you sicker,
Or waiting making you weaker.

What to do is the question.
To eat or not to eat?