I don't want to be a fish
sliced in dishes,
sent to everybody.
I am not me, not complete.
Like Monday morning,
torn apart by every mouth,
ordered by every phone,
I'm worn out, my boss.
I must be delicious, my boss.
Mustard and soy sauce, no need.
You say that I can be everything.
Your eyes, Sushi knives,
Don't push me, I'm dead.
I'm already in your belly.