Hunger

My hunger is a sharp thing. It sits in the pit of my stomach, at the back of my mind, in the tense light of each of my waking hours. Relentless, unbidden, persisting. Ever present.

I try to assuage its pangs with food. I feed the sharpness, I cool the hot thirst, I stop and acknowledge its presence.

My hunger does not leave.

It rakes my belly most days through the ticking of the clock and the white heat of a shining day. It accompanies me into the dark hours of night and snakes its way from the soft folds of my center up through my chest, behind my eyes, throughout my brain.

Pulsing.

Beating.

Living.

My muscles tense, my head aches, I seek comfort and solace away from this growling burden, this constant pull inside of me. I push it away hoping it will disappear.

It does not.

It slices neatly through my meager defenses, assaulting me through the thrum of my heart with words that batter me.

I am so hungry.

I am so hungry.

I am so hungry.

I must spend time, hours, days attending to its pressing need, its near-stifling presence, its overwhelming load.

Feed me. I am so hungry.

In morning, its sharpness is muted, softer in its approach. Exhausted from its pursuit, I unwisely ignore its gentle reminders and benign probings, glad for a break as I throw it a morsel here or a drink there. It roars to life again within hours rearing its tyrannical head as my day progresses, beating every other thought out of my consciousness.

I succumb to its violence, its heat, its oppression. I seek to soothe, to calm, to comfort through taste, texture, smells and colors. Sometimes it abates allowing these things to sate its appetite. Allowing me some peace and solace from its clawing, voracious need.

Those are the days I breathe with joy.

Other days I cannot contain it, approach it or help it.

Those are the days it seems my hunger may end up eating me.