Fresh Meat

Tyler Zeno, Beyond the System Writing Contest

The first time I entered foster care, I felt like fresh meat—not for a butcher, but for a morgue. An emotional morgue. I laid there in the hospital, under harsh white lights, one TV blinking in the corner like it had somewhere better to be.

“You can’t stay here forever. We need to find you a home.”

That’s what they said. As if I were a 150-pound piece of luggage—heavy, misplaced, and handled without care. No one asked if I was scared. No one asked who I was. Just “where do we put you?”

So here I am. A wasted queer in a world that wants nothing more than to erase queers like me. They took me to an elderly woman’s house. It wasn’t all shits and giggles. But I knew—I wasn’t like the other girls. Honestly, I wouldn’t even call myself a girl. But back then, being me wasn’t an option. Survival was.

Foster care didn’t just house me. It reshaped me. Into someone the world wasn’t ready for. Someone I had to hide just to stay safe. I built a version of myself I could live with, even if no one else could.

I’m not here to be your inspiration. I’m not here to make the system look good. I’m here because I made it. That balance between breaking and bending? That’s where I live.

Yeah—I carry survival guilt. I still wonder why I made it out when others didn’t. Fighting without a reason is draining. But fighting without a cause? That’s deadly.

They told me foster care would make me a better person for society.

But I’m not here to be molded. I’m here to be heard.

They made me an enemy to the world they tried to fit me into.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.