Butcher’s Daughter

Butcher’s Daughter

My daddy butchered piglets—

one baby at a time.

I watched the silence of their deaths,

no squeal, no cry, no rhyme.

I learned to be cold early.

Not by choice—

by force.

In our house, love came laced with steel,

and blood was the main course.

They fed me pig’s ears, raw and red,

still warm from the kill.

They cracked beneath my teeth like bones—

and I swallowed,

and I was still.

That’s how I learned to greet the world:

with appetite and grace.

A smile stitched in meat and silk,

and no fear

on my face.

– Marina Orlova