A poem by Joseph Vicaire.
I am a laughing stock. The nourishment.
I am the dying quarry being ripped apart by the hyenas.
I am a true delicacy.
And with the warm fat smeared about their mouths they do not even taste me or savor the flavor, for they have become merely empty stomach. The acidity pouch that must be stuffed.
And their satisfaction is direct.
There is something that happens when you have become the food for others. Your learn to portion yourself. You learn to swallow hard and fast, so that no second helping of you can be taken. You become stomach, too. But the meal is not tasty, on the contrary, it revolts.
It is the regurgitated you lick off yourself after it has been spewed upon you. You are the offering and the offered, the vehicle carrying the dinner and the leftovers.
But in that moment you do not notice this.
You only feel what has been taken, what is missing after you have offered it away. Something borrowed, because, obviously, it did not belong to you to begin with. And then, when it is gone, and they have thrown back the stripped bones in your face, you feel a relief. A burdon taken off your back. Having been reduced to the nothing they cannot take away.