Well done.
Over done.
like meat.
a long time sizzling
till you become tough.
the rawness of rare
was a long time ago.
you know you have been forgotten here
on the coals
and you know someone will comment,
when you are presented,
on how you are not as you should be.
you can feel it already:
the judgment plate.
you will be sauntered out with poor wine and a spring of parsly
to try to cover up how
done
you are.
I'm done.
muscles stiff, color, lacking, smell, stale.
my mind sits in a taught nagging-- a numbing.
no thoughts please, no more thoughts.
we are done, please;
let us just be done.
what ever juicy pink was once inside has been dried up.
If seasoned better, I might consider myself more like jerky.
but that is what I am afraid of, right?
being jerked around; being carelessly torn at by teeth after pulling me from a rations bag.
I'm afraid of drying up-- of being wrinkly because you are so vain- it is not becoming of you.
Afraid of become nothing
but a piece of meat
that is overdone.
