Hunger nips at your feet and lies dormant in your bones. Playing with you like a dog.
The pitch black dark ink of your mouth the closest you'll get to the real world. You are the animal from your dreams. The blows to your body for a moment quieted your constant companion. The hunger lurched and was yet unsatisfied. The blows to your five year body still not enough to fill you up to the brim.
Cursed to have enough love in your body to render your appetite insatiable. There's too much to give to feel satisfyingly empty and you always want more than you are allowed to have. You want the mean one. You want the nice one. The one who gave you both almost made you full, but then you swallowed him whole.
You cringe as the outside world continues to pull back your layers. There is no pleasure to be found in the ravenous beast that you truly are. A starving fragment with no kinder concept of intimacy. You sin in encounters with others searching for something within you. You know they'll find nothing and the most selfish part of you cannot bear to turn the other away. You feed on whatever you can. Time sustains you. Barely. And still you have the audacity to be angry.
Your skin is dry and no longer sticks. You cling on with an iron grip out of mindless habit. Tongue burnt out a long time ago, the nuances of the healthy are lost on you.
You pity each foolish entity that gives to you. You cannot let go. All of the men and women and even children that have offered you their goodness. Static distortions of them lay imprinted onto your psyche. You steal faces and names and problems and wishes. You try on souls as best you can. Steal their images and metaphors, glimpses of the real cut and organized into something new. But each essence is overwhelmed by the pungent flavor of your frustrated isolation. Latent horror teeming beneath everything that emerges from me. Everything tastes the same.
Sans trace I nibble at the peppered skin clinging to my bones. Soon I hear my pressure pop. Crude failure of ouroboros. Tail worming it's way down my throat to find an empty pocket where stomach should be. Only feeling a canvas covered in smears of wet flesh and the psychic scribbling of the enamored universe.
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