Dissection

A poem about being objectified.

Behold.

The first, sticky glance. What do you see?

Flesh. Pale, white as fallen snow.

Here she is, that temptress.

Behind little pink lips lies a deep discontent concealed.

Cupid's Bow - a weapon, nonetheless.

You salivate over sharpened teeth, fingers grasp for a cut of thigh, of breast.

And what does she taste like?

Sweet words, that promise nothing?

The salt of the earth?

The decay underneath?

Empirical focus on her chest, and carve, now, with that knife.

One beating, throbbing organ.

The colour red.

The colour blue.

A rib-cage. Sharp, ivory and pure. 

The pair of heaving lungs, one for sorrow, two for joy,

they sustain an existence, not a life.

A mere object. An object of lust.

The heart is merely an accessory.

Label it,

and put it back on the shelf for later.