Poem: I’m Not Your TV Dinner
I’m not your TV dinner, you bastard.
Contemptuous thorn,
and you try to negate
That you vacuum-packed me
in cling-wrappy plastic
when I offered myself to you
on a plate.
And how dense am I?
It took months to discover
I’d been thrown in the deep-freeze.
You fear a new lover.
So what do you do
with this raspberry truffle,
so eager to be what you want?
Maybe I don’t even need to escape—
I’m sure Swanson’s
would envy my staying power—
when I travel the earth half-asleep,
half-awake,
Pretending I’m more than just Lady of the Hour.
Why wouldn’t I let the ice
nurture my wounds?
My veins are still burning.
My blood just won’t freeze.
I’m fighting, rebelling.
I’m stronger than you.
Don’t pretend you’re not
such a God-damn tease.
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