Animals in Love

I watch us eat a piece of meat. We are a heathen revealed. Base animal instincts. Tearing at it with our hands. Ripping the pieces off the bone. It’s rip tear mouth chew. Like a baby, almost. Or person made baby, by circumstance or situation. Rip tear chew. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

the meat, cold from the fridge; oil working its way out across the parchment paper and into the box, emblazoned with telltale marks of capitalism at work, branding for the day you find a box, half rotted behind some milk that was too big for the usual shelf and took up more than its allotted share, blocking the view until the putrid smell called for the investigation, the growth of indifference breeding, that will be the end of this box as the oil having soaked its way into the box cooly slicks surfaces and the meat is still cold as you rip tear chew. again. again. again.

Are you/we/us an animal? Would that be so bad, to be an animal. would it be erosion of the guardrails that made us great? The backpedaling of growth. The devolution of the higher form. What is great?

Come watch water and in metamorphous see the nature of wonder. Is it a cloud I watch today. Or a stream. Or a body, a sack of water made mobile and self-healing. What form does water take in the void. Maybe its droplets fall to be ever smaller droplets. One drop divided. We’re in love until we’re not, amirite?

Quick, a game. Who’s more sentient. You eating meat or me ripping flesh. Who’s more sentient. You torn in my memory, or me chewed up in your heart. Who’s more sentient. You that I dream eating, or me that you ripped apart. Who’s more sentient. You who I knew, or me before you died.