à la carte

I am the Queen's dinner. I am on her menu. I have seen her insides and I can tell you, they aren't very nice. Most people's insides aren't too nice. But I have definitely seen more attractive insides than hers.

I would like to think I am medium-rare but actually I'm a little over-done. I was brought to the table a-flame. Quite bright and exciting for Her Royal Highness but extinguished very quickly for safety reasons. I burned the Queen's taste buds. The ones right on the end of her dainty little tongue.

I am too small for the plate. There is a lot of empty space around me and not even gravy or vegetables or anything to fill it.

I was served raw. Inappropriately garnished. Eaten with the fork in the left hand; knife in the right. The way you are supposed to eat.

Everyone likes the Queen even if they don't really want to. Even if the Queen doesn't like them. It's nothing personal. There are just a lot of people who like the Queen and not enough time for her to know them all. That's a lie though. She's glad she doesn't have to know them all. People are a bore. She knows herself. She knows the seat of her throne and could tell if you put a pea under the cushion and all that royal crap. She knows how many carats her rings have but not how many of her subjects have hearts (all of them).

I am quite good sustenance. I am bloody nutritious. Medium-rare. I display the heart foundation tick in an appropriate colour. I am disappointingly healthy. I am not ready salted which means you can't taste the fat. Wouldn't you like to enjoy eating something if you are going to feel guilty afterwards anyway?

The Queen can't take care of herself. She requires assistance. Why is the country's matriarch unable to take care of herself? The rest of us are fucked if the Queen needs two hundred and fifty hands.

The Queen can take care of a bad meal though. Two hundred and fifty hands, should a meal displease her. A few fingers will whisk away her plate quick smart and empty the contents down the palace insinkerator. A few others will fetch something more fitting for her to pop inside her quaint little mouth. Something to wash down the over-done, under-seasoned meat.

There might be sixty five fingers waving themselves around the Queen's sweet face at any one time. Fluffing her peripheral. Rearranging her ego.

The Queen throws a fit if she ever takes a bite of her dinner and discovers a piece of bone inside. She despises seeing the bloody packaging hiding shamefully in the rubbish bin. She expects the cut to be perfect. She forgets her dinner once had a pulse.