Consumption is currency.
Are the intellections of my heart only ascribed value when they have been digested by others? And subsequently, lauded by these others, as a delicacy? Am I made legitimate by their... salivation? By their assumptions as to my prior and potential manifestation of wisdoms and satiations? ...That is...the breadth of my supposed capacities?
And if I fail to be, produce, what becomes of me then? If my skin, rich melanin, does not shine smooth in the noon day sun? Perhaps my fingers, caressed by latex, never ‘nimble’ the scalpel? When my lips do not tease, and stimulate, with expertise? As the hand that glides down my waist fails to meet a curve.
If no prose spiritual is birthed out of my pain? And my tears fall, only for the sake of falling. Can’t there be such a thing...as suffering for its own sake? And if, in such moments, I fail to find strength to pray? What will become of my palatability?