Hordes of flesh,
shaped like humans,
in an ongoing torrent of small talk and unpleasantaries. 

What do they expect of me? 
These soulless bags of processed meat,
mimicking humanity, faking personality. 

I suppress my not entirely irrational irritation;
I bite my tongue until my mouth is half filled with blood that tastes like paperclips. 

I bite and bite until, mid-conversation, 
the best part of an inch of bloody muscle
flops against my bottom front teeth. 

I gape, allowing the blood to stream down my previously pristine shirt. 
I gaze up at the meatman before me,
as this chunk of tongue drops from the side of my open mouth
and into my lap. 

The skin filled with meat pays no mind,
just seven pounds sterling
and continues, like all the others, on his way.