The chunk of flesh lies there.
It’s pink and still,
No longer throbbing or feeling.
The thigh that birthed it is oozing,
Pumping, still alive.
The man sets the knife down
And prepares the pan and herbs.
Taken away from its origins,
The meat is no more than a blob,
A collection of cells,
13,355 calories, more or less.
As the meat is seared,
Screaming and whining,
The man feels no sympathy,
For the blob is dead.
It is served.
Digested by the king,
Integrated into his cells,
Powering the mitochondria,
Embodied within his policies,
Passed on to his children.
Jie Zhitui clutches his bleeding leg.
He feels inanimate;
Like a butchered cut of meat.
Olivia Park is a high school student who loves storytelling. She enjoys writing poetry, short stories, and essays that explore themes of identity and the human experience. Olivia has been recognized in school literary magazines and local competitions. When not writing, she finds inspiration in art, music, and nature.