The Butcher Shop

I saw her body for what it was, her tender skin, her juicy rump- a hunk of meat.

While others longed to caress her soft curves,

I simply wanted to lather her in my juices and stick her body in my conventional oven.

Pull her out, her skin burnt to a crisp like after those long days we used to spend at the beach.


I consider myself the ultimate feminist. 

I never saw her as an object, to be used for my selfish, sexual desires.

To me, she was a filet mignon.

Cooked to perfection, pink in the middle, seasoned with a dash of salt and pepper.  


Before she even entered the room, I smelled her perfume.

My mouth salivating, yearning for a taste.

But when her eyes met mine, I realized that I was the real prey.


This poem is about: 
Our world


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