Vultures

A poem about opportunistic fuckboys.

Photo by Jairo Alzate on Unsplash

There is more to me than just meat to be devoured
​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​by your insatiable kind.

Beauty lives here
in these bones that you would pick over.
These bones of emerald marrow
that you — summoned
​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​by your wretched interests — give
fourth and fifth glances
to, yet are incapable of appraising.

Watch me as my flesh regenerates,
as my blood pulses without
​ ​ ​​​ ​ ​​​ ​a driving heart.

Watch, sure — but keep your damn distance.