A poem I wrote for my creative writing class. |
Hunger. It sits like a cold stone within the bloated belly of the young boy who has not the means to satisfy his mortal appetite. It took the newborn in the house three doors down from where he lives, Who uttered its final cry with mouth agape, Yearning for the nourishment neither bottle nor breast would provide. In death, the child found itself full, satiated And was finally able to escape the Hunger. Thin, pretty, She strokes the back of her throat with two fingers. Not thin enough. Not pretty enough, She thinks as she discards the brown paper bag her mother handed her that same morning. Her stomach growls, But she loves the feeling of the Hunger. It is the dull, nagging pang that eats at his ribs, that chews at his mind, that gnaws at his soul. Poor, penniless, He fills his rumbling stomach with hungry dreams that cannot fill the void, That cannot stop the Hunger. She lives for it, Thrives from it. The emptiness in her gut makes her feel Thin. Skinny. Pretty. “Starvation is beauty,” They tell her. Then is not that poor, Pitiful, hungry urchin of a boy the most beautiful creature to ever bless this hideous earth? To be revolting, Repulsive to the human eye seems not so great a worry if it would mean a full belly, An end to the Hunger. How unfair, How ironic it is that she who has does not want and he who wants does not have. It is a sickness— His of the body, Hers of the brain. They whither away, Two starving souls, Into nothingness. And she makes a Thin, skinny, pretty corpse. And he no longer feels the dreadful agony of Hunger. |