Feeding the masses

I'm so tired
of feeding your face.
You keep digging,
and you'll keep on
hollowing me out,
until my skin stretches
around my bones
like Saran-wrap.

The meat in my hands
are raw
like the stringy pieces
of flesh around a wound,
torn open
in the thick
hemoglobin air
under a bandaid.

You see,
when you sit down
to eat,
you're not eating
what I make.
You're eating
what I am.
You're eating me
alive.

I'm so tired
of feeding you my face
that I have now lost
my appetite.