Scream, Ice Cream.

Who am I to force
life inside the middle of another being
when it tore me into pieces even though
I had the words to say so. Which was the day
that it became ok to shut a living soul in the dark
from birth, for the fleeting moment it is allowed to,
forced to live. How are we numb enough that us,
the ‘humane’ race, we are the ones doing the forcing.
Are you still a rapist if the thing you rape can’t speak
or scream or write about why it doesn’t feel good and they
didn’t want it. Don’t we know, already, that they don’t want it.
Where is the tipping point – the importance of a taste
we don’t rely on vs the burden of forcing a womb to carry
children again and again, children they never see beyond a few days
whilst we attach machines to their bodies for nourishment
we don’t rely on. We do not need, depend upon, or anything more
than want it. Why do my wants matter more than the sheer
scale of industrialised pain and what makes them less
than the cat I feed them to in my home.
In this, am I alone?

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