Untitled

I never wanted my meat bloody but they only serve it that way here fit on a porcelain platter with effeminate embroidery, and clean edges that reflect distorted visions of my face. The meat's high quality, filet mignon or something similar, but the presentation always makes me uncomfortable... I glare at the blood-pool budding, enveloping all I ever want, Weeds of red sacrifice subsuming their purpose, and grow pensive to find some reason in the mutilated relationships of my life... But I only uncover the wearying apprehension of disgust... Every. Single. Time. Maybe eventually I'll retire and quit looking for just a piece of meat, maybe the blood will run dry and I'll only be left with quality, but until that day I'll keep nibbling and see distorted reflections, and feel uncomfortable with what I've got... Why? I don't know. Blood is all they really serve here... And that's just the way it is.