I despise my gargantuan hunger for connection,
a beast gnawing at my insides,
clawing at my throat,
each cut precise—
to hurt, but never bleed out.
Everyone is hungry for something:
power, money, fame.
My hunger comes from starvation,
deep within me,
like the low rumbling of a stomach
everyone hears,
yet no one reacts to.
I am lonely—
starving to be seen,
like a child in tantrum,
thrashing and screaming for eyes.
I despise how needy I am,
how primal my craving feels:
a newborn reaching for milk,
an alcoholic his bottle.
I crave it,
need it,
starve from it—
yet never have it.
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