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Half a sandwich is not enough

To subsist on. Such a little bit.

“Oh, me? I barely eat at all, really. Just a few bites. That’s all I really need to go go go.”

Who can digest that?

Good for her, I say, (hoping she gets run over by a train).

Maybe I can watch, from where I am tied to the tracks.

What a treat it would be, to have the other half of her sandwich to munch, while she gets crunched.

And perhaps a gin and tonic.

Am I sick?

Of course, this is what I hear quite often enough, yet, I feel relatively sure I’m not.

What I am is hungry.

A ravenous sort of belly burning desire that sears the sensitive lining of my stomach and renders me distracted, tangled and jangled in the pains and vapors of open-mouthed desire that call for me to sit and eat, to drink and douse the pyre that cooks me from the inside out, undetected as the world goes on and on.

Look, there she goes, spinning and being all earthy beneath your quick little feet, so quick you don’t even look into my eyes as we pass in the street.

But I can’t blame you for that, really, because I am sure the hunger can be read on my face and I would grab you and eat you, if only I could keep up your pace.

I am no cannibal, I am just looking to fill in the place that is so broken and so deeply in disrepair, If I eat your beautiful heart maybe it will replace the one that is no longer there.

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