Hangry.

I started this poem feeling full, but hunger began to stray the words.

It's that time of the month
where I feel an unquenchable hunger
that violent urge that I feel to hunt
the season that feels so vile and vulgar

yet I stand stranded in a corner
I've not the strength to fight
and I thrive in the wrath of my own torture
I blur the line between wrong and right

that hunger begins to consume me
and the scent of my flesh is comfort
and in my mind there is nothing to see
for a meal my body is what comes first

I'd like for the weight to decrease
so I start slow by biting my nails
I start by slicing myself,
and chew a little skin off the piece.
I can taste the scars and feel the scales
and that void begins to eat at me
as I claw at my being, my soul
I begin to notice there's nothing there to see
just a big black empty hole
a separate hungry being that won't leave me be
with a heart and mind of it's own
I begin to lose track of this feeling
like how I lost flesh off my bone
and I begin to feel my sanity unreeling
as I lose the rhythm of my own poem
and lost the words at the tip of my tongue
that left me feeling alone and solemn
the hunger that left me starving so young

I forgot how I started this sonnet
the lines became longer than meant to be
perhaps I wasn't cut out to be a poet
perhaps writing was never really for me
I begin to forget who this hunger made
someone who can't distinguish purpose
I created memories that would never fade
and they would occasionally float to the surface
as I consume what was once myself
and I leave the pieces of my soul on the plate
fullness is what I convince to myself
but I ate, and I ate, and I hate.

-R☆