They gnaw at the edges of me,
little sharp-toothed things with hollow eyes,
crawling from the cracks in my skull
to lap at the marrow of my thoughts.
I used to fight them.
I used to starve them.
But hunger makes them cruel.
So now I lay the table.
Silver plates of regret,
goblets brimming with old wounds,
a banquet of memories too raw to swallow.
They eat well.
They grow fat.
And I grow thin,
hollowed out like a carcass left in the sun,
picked clean by things with my voice,
my hands,
my hunger.