Our flesh, 

It is so mystified to us, 

So appropriated. 

For us it is to be, 

To be broken, 

To be presented, 

To be reduced, 

Packaged, 

Mortified, 

Toned, 

To be used. 

In reality, 

It is to be in. 

To hold our form, 

To be us, 

In the three-dimensional space, 

We invade, 

It is our costume, 

Loyal puppet of our every dance, 

Our middle-man meat-suit, 

In the translation of connection. 

It is not us, 

But randomly assigned to us, 

And yet, 

We owe it everything, 

And it owes us nothing. 

Please, 

Cut me up like coleslaw, 

Dissect me, 

And moisten my clipped nails, 

Like paper mache porridge, 

Serve me up like deli meat, 

Fix me, 

I’ll squeeze in so you can squeeze me out, 

Mould me, 

Perfect me in the roughest way you know how, 

And then tell me, 

I’m worthless to try, 

To want to be. 

Eat me, 

Devour me, 

Bite every inch, 

As long as, 

You are looking my way, 

When I slice you back, 

With my knowing wink, 

And say: 

“Jog on, loser.” 

illustration by Kat Cassidy.