Decadence Irresistible

She lays about the room, in damp pools of shadow, so fresh from the shed.
Her long hair, soft like the shell she wore before the freeing horse piss.
To the world, eyes focused on the lost shed shell, they see only a thing.
A person defined and defiled by the freedom of metamorphosis.

They’d eat her, boil every bit of her with butter and lemon.
Then call her perverse, because they savored her for the object she is.
And isn’t that a part of what she wants. To be perfect enough to burn.

But she’d lived a life being consumed already, in a world with mouths
It is a promise.

The other promise of life is death, and so it did she die
Just as she died a man, she died a woman too. Shed a corpse.
A new creature, harder on the outside, and loved inside.
A life unfettered by the gaze. Stronger for those they love.

Still I wonder the joys they left on their second death, to be an object.
Because they know the taste of it, the juices and joy of it.
Palate consumed by it, but the object unconsumed.
There is no object in their world.