Poem by Sarah Chack 

Art by Lillian Anderson 

TW: Gore

Her skin is stretched too tightly; 
she feels it reaching its breaking point 
as it strains to hold itself together 
over bones that are soon to be 
dust-bound, pounded 
                                             by time. 

The flesh pulls itself taught, 
elongates until it becomes 
a rope about to snap, 
the last nerve ending in a 
fading carcass 
               that crawls, 
                               drags itself 
across this man-made desert 
until her skin bleeds 
and her claws break 
and the promise of release 
                                            fades away: 

A purgatory, 
thrust upon her.

Her muscles are encased, tendons 
                 packed inside 
like bloodied sausage meat that’s still 
dripping and 
              oozing and 
                            bleeding out 
on the metal table, 
muscle that’s been wrapped 
in a thin, papery 
lambskin coating 
that the butcher freshly harvested; 

this mourning: 
raw.

  She is a lamb, a sow, a cow 
             stuffed inside 
         the slaughterhouse 
so that someone else 
can harvest her meat, her bones, 
use her body long after 
she has lost the ability 
                                            to say no.