Sunday Platter

She eats her pride once again-
one without chopsticks
but with bare hands.

She munches her words,
Grinds her thoughts
and swallows the
remaining syllables

the feeling is transcendental
it's like eating her own brain,
so lean and tender
that one could hear it
singing the pain,
the tissues smell
like rancid wound
devoured by hungry
foraging wolves

after which, she hangs her skull
on the clothesline,
it easily dries up
like how anger develops into
she notices it,
when the blood
through her palm.

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