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.

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

One Response to Eating Woman Brown

  1. Pingback: A Witch Is Born | Kshyama's Attic

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