Happy Valentine's Day

I.

Squashed crabapples on doorsteps,

brains & seeds & outer skins in shattered chunks,

worthless, inedible fruits,

abandoned for someone else to collect & throw “away”

with the rubbish, out of sight, but still existing

in a different form in the purgatory

of don’t love you but won’t let you go.

You’ll never reach Nirvana.

You’re someone else’s problem to deal with.

II.

Slumped cheeks & humped spine

is leaving the eleventh interview knowing

that the rejection email she’ll receive is directly correlated to:

The shiny spot on her forehead, her subpar college degree, & not enough solid experience kissing ass & rubbing elbows w/ the privileged.

Same reasons no guys approach her,

when she's ready & willing to fuck, at the bar or the library.

Back at home, where she lives with mom & dad,

she pops open a bottle of whiskey, bottle of Valium,

counts out fifty-two, fifty three, then three Phenergan.

To be safe. Then that’s it. No more.

III.

It doesn’t have the words to tell you

what it felt like, but I do.

I don’t know how it feels but I know what I saw.

First fork prongs pressed against the meat,

blood pushed out the sponge, medium rare.

This steak was on a Styrofoam plate, then the

Saran wrap torn off . $5.95/lb. Chuck-eye.

Born & raised in the USA:

shot up w/ antibiotics so it wouldn’t

catch sickness from other sick ones.

All alive, but atrophying in the dark warehouse

the zombie livestock didn’t have much

cognitive capability, still—nerve endings functioned

as it rode, strapped on a conveyor belt then

blunt force, it was knocked out. Eyes open

watching but unable to move away from

the protuberance, fast, and between the eyes

then blackness.

Not dead yet but black & only pain.

No more moo’s.

Then into the grinder to be shredded alive.