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Me, spotting you at a counter behind a thick pane of glass.

You, sitting there with that dude you were with, waiting.

Me, watching that dude insert a knife in your back and peel of your orange-brown shell.

You, bending and extending your eight legs, attempting to ambulate to safety.

Me, gasping as he rips of one leg. Then a second.

You, frantic with six legs now, innards exposed.

Me, unable to look away as he scoops out your guts. Then your brains.

You, legs still.

Me, walking away, feeling headsick.

You, all legs disarticulated and placed on ice.

Me, passing a container of your distance relatives, some clawing at the sides of their final home.

You, being wrapped in plastic.

Me, thinking of your shell tossed aside and your guts in a heap on the cold counter.

You, being bought and sold by a family of tourists.

Me, thinking this is the closest I’ve ever been to a slaughterhouse.

Me, thinking I should become a vegetarian.

Me, buying a platter of sashimi and eating it with soy sauce and wasabi.

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