Do you think we fucked up
calling life the journey —
when it’s really just the slow marinade
before the chef's kiss we call death?
We keep talking,
thinking we matter —
like the onions do,
right before the flame
smothers their skin.
We cry
not because we’re hopeful,
not because teardrops are poetic —
but because we’re being peeled.
We walk around like garnishes —
pretending we’ll be remembered
after the plate’s been cleared.
What if death was never the end?
What if death is the meal —
and everything before it
was just a rather elaborate premise?
Hope,
love,
ambition —
just seasoning.
Childhood,
faith,
despair —
all chopped and tossed
into the slow roast of breath.
And us?
We were always the meat.
Dressed in dignity,
stuffed with delusions,
marinated in belief,
spiced with narratives.
But no matter the recipe,
we all end up in the same oven —
slow-burned,
served cold,
devoured by absence.
We live like our flavour matters.
Like our suffering
adds texture to the broth of time.
Like we’ll be the one dish
the universe remembers.
But in the end —
we’re just carcasses
cooked in silence,
garnished with fiction,
served on the platter of history
for gods that never existed.
You hungry?
Yeah, didn't think so.
Hard to feel your appetite
when you wake off your delusion
and realise
you've been nothing but meat all along.
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