Eating Woman Brown


I asked with blank eyes:

‘oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you wanted to eat me. I thought you just wanted to eat me out. but yes, alright, this makes more sense given our circumstances’

I always tend to forget my flesh is caramel sweet – oh so edible or so they say. Perhaps I should start charging, as most consumable items are not given away in capitalist markets.

And then I remember that I am made, in fact, of air – all taste and flavour is pretense, and I am a small particle of a free good, existing so much in abundance: the edible woman made from dust. Indeed, I taste more like clay and blood soaked earth and Madras heat, despite their fantasies – Yet they still trick my thighs into solidity, jaw into rigidity, but in the end, (tr)eat me like air –

And as yet there is no mark(et) for air.

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This entry was posted in Mental Health, poetry, Tackling Racism, Thoughts on Life. Bookmark the permalink.

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