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.
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Author:
seori (
Offline) - Published: May 6th, 2025 05:39
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 8
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, NinjaGirl, MinaH
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Comments4
What a wonderful metaphor lies behind the mask of this creature that speaks to us all in shadowy words. Very nice and a fave
Welcome to MPS🙏🏻🕊️
"But hunger makes them cruel" what a raw line. This is amazing work.
This has such wonderful imagery. I love it. Thank you for sharing
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