Hunger

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.