I lay in bed feeling hot and cold,

Tired but awake,

My stomach sounds like a creature from The Dark Crystal.

The thought of food nauseates me,

But I feel empty inside.

It's more than a hunger for food,

Because even when I stuff my face until Im sick the emptiness never goes away.

It's a desire for the things that give me life,

Food, water, sex, love...

It's a hollowing, aching need,

Carving out the insides of my organs until they look like coral sculptures.

But of course, I'm trypophobic, and OCD, so that sensation suits me for my grave.

If you dont understand this, then you dont understand me,

So you've never been hungry like this.

You've never walked your home alone at night searching for what isnt there; food, water, someone to hold you, someone to love you.

You've never cried yourself to near-sleep because your emptiness is darker than the moonless shut-in under-the-covers camouflage you've engulfed yourself in.

Your soul begins to consume itself,

Just to satisfy your hunger.