Sam Beal

Sam contributed the piece Eating the Tiger, a poem about femininity, dysphoria, and euphoria for our fourth issue. They are a genderfluid "game designer, poet, and adoring cat parent" with a brilliant talent for expressing the unexpressable!

IG: @bealdoesstuff

Eating the Tiger

Lady-soft eyes stare up from the floor

as I line the table with silverware.

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She is larger than me, beast paws big enough

to break ribs with an ill-placed biscuit.

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I know how easy it is to fall fond

from how quickly others have named her.

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But she is mine and I hate their names

so I only call her to and from me,

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forever startling at her bristled fur

as she weaves between my legs.

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It is difficult swallowing the things we keep

that are bound to tear us apart.

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But I have always been too hungry, childish in the way

I will scarf down what is not food.

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Once, when I was eight, I threw powdered sugar

around my room like a blizzard

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wanting nothing more than to taste

snowfall in the Florida summer.

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So I sprinkled sweet on the dolls and dresses

my father gave paychecks for,

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licked stripped pink paint from the walls

and mauled girlish tutus like prey.

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She was there even then, like a striped beignet,

dusted and crouched in the corner,

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gnashing her teeth at my lack of manners,

drooling over my performance.

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This tiger, she is older than I could ever be,

has killed enough to know I’m not woman.

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Still, she purrs in the mouths of strangers

who call me ma’am and miss.

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So I am eating her raw, fur and all, finally,

one violent bite at a time.

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Once she is gone, I will scrape her blood

from my nails like sticky polish,

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marvel at the stains on my knuckles and palms,

count the days ‘til they’re gone in tallies.

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Her death will be the sweetest pink yet.