The Hunger Pains series (Part 1)

hunger, belly, why are you so bottomless

why are you so so deep

so so empty

so so cavernous like the mouths I had, lost in themselves

hunger, belly, black hole

hunger, belly, where are the rocks?

you know boulders, best

    break open the insides 

        your infectious internal bleeding

hunger, belly, what does your satisfaction taste like?

    air-nothing

                    air-smoke

                                    air-suffocating 

my favorite tongue is the one that cannot taste

the one that sits on the fireplace, trophy cut skinned and photographed

hunger, belly, one day I’ll bring you to the oceans

let sand smooth you,

softness hue you

bone deep this time

            mud deeper

when are you full

when are you full

when will you eat

when will you eat

the hunger pains

The magic child. A child hiding. A child of imagination. I spent most of my childhood drifting between magic and dreaming. The monsters I saw were my friends, allies, within these dreams and I begged to be one of them. To be hidden and imaginary and just as invisible as I felt in my skin. I heard ghosts, fictional characters, angels, people who were not born yet. I remembered the life I had before this one. And the life three lives before that. In this one I was the starving girl. The invisible girl. The watching girl. 

 I imagined the house a dripping wet castle most of the time. I was both the dragon that lives in the basement and the princess that was trapped there, hiding from a different type of beast. I was starving. I was crumbling, invisible, stepped on glass that was always breaking. I never knew which hairline crack would shatter me. There were parts of me that longed for it. 

I saw the irony of my life. Hyper-monitored, yet almost completely ignored. It was due diligence; my grandparents can say they put me in therapy. What else is there to do? They’d done all they could by paying someone to translate what I was saying, it must be my own fault that I’m still starving. Or suffocating, or whatever manner of death the day named for me. 

I found myself hiding everywhere. Because I was dying. My wilted flower heart was full and heavy to the point of sink, so my head remained down when people were looking at. I knew my strengths, my invisibility and hyper-visibility were fleeting in their placements. They took turns, discussed who should see me and when. And I wondered who “they” were. The voices in my head were symptoms of my depression, according to my therapist. My family loved me; they thought I was beautiful, smart, pathetic, weak, irresponsible, better than this, funny, sweet, a burden. I was best when quiet. When I was observant and quiet, I was a delight to be around. I listened, had no questions. Obedience and proprietary deeply ingrained in my veins, it was cellular now. I only knew how to bend and listen and follow while being told that I was a leader. 

The first hunger was visibility. Then peace. Then, silence. I saw everything. Heard all of the words not meant for my body because I was so often forgotten. So often lonely, under surveillance, and surrounded.