To some, I am just Meat.

“Mate” the sign on my forehead reads,
or “meat” if you’d rather.
Desperately I try to remove it;
it will not budge.
Society will not allow it.

“Meat” it reads there on my head,
or “mate” if that’s what you call it.
I’d rather my “Person” sign hang high,
but instead it is on my back:
there as an afterthought.

“Mate,” “meat” just the way they want it.
No feelings, only flesh to consume.
I try to move my “Person” sign around,
but it blocks my face;
too easy now to blatantly ignore.

 

Writer: Meat


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