HUNGER

I tell myself I should eat less.

This body feels heavier than I want it to be.

I should resist.

But the night is freezing,

and this house feels far too empty.

Strange whispers linger in the dark—

the haunting scrape of silverware against plates,

the buttery sigh of toast fresh from the pan.

My hunger prowls inside me.

I should stay disciplined.

Yet temptation stalks me like a ghost,

hovering just beyond my vision.

Forget restraint.

Forget perfect self-control.

Tonight, I surrender to every craving

like a starving beast surviving winter.

An endless appetite possesses me.

I tear through bowl after bowl—

cereal drowned in milk,

melting ice cream,

rice, beans,

and a token salad

to pretend I still have balance.

I devour everything in sight:

cake,

cheese,

pasta dripping with sauce.

Soon my stomach swells painfully,

tight and overfilled,

like something ready to burst.

But still, it isn’t enough.

I pile on meat and spices,

hot sauce blazing across my tongue.

I grill another sandwich,

crunch through an entire bag of chips,

then shove fistfuls of blueberries and ripe cherries

past greedy teeth

into the endless pit of my hunger.

Colors splatter everywhere—

reds, oranges, purples—

staining my beard,

the ceiling,

the walls,

the floor.

The kitchen looks like a battlefield

where food exploded

and somehow I survived victorious.

But victory has a price.

I glance down and laugh bitterly.

My favorite white shirt

is no longer white.

It clings desperately to my stretched stomach,

another casualty

in this war against myself.

I touch the ruined fabric, knowing

those stains are permanent.

Still… maybe I can save it.

Maybe I’ll twist it with rubber bands,

cover it in color,

turn the damage into art.

And maybe—just maybe—

I should finally learn

how to feed myself

without fighting my own body.

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