cis het piggies slopping around in the patriarch’s narrative

I sit across a pig and his boss.

They ask me to recollect my trauma.

To pin point each of the nervous threads in my memory

that now hold my body under siege,

affirming the paper thinness of my frantic skin.

Weaving clamps around sore throat’s air ducts.

I suppose the invasion left me starving and delirious

because this time, my words brought no sustenance.

So if there’s such a thing as justice

Pigs don’t eat that shit.


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moon skulled

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