she looks at you,
like a skillful matador stares at a bull or
like a bull stares at a clumsy matador,
eyes blazing in the cool air of an unfortunate dinner date location,
and she picks a flash of orange from the brown,
holds it like she’s signing her name on a death certificate,
and says
with a terrible sort of softness,
“Did you know it takes the same amount of force to bite
through a carrot as it does to bite through a finger?”
she drops the carrot back in the stew.

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