Feasting

A grand feast, again,

with worms on every plate,

they stuff their faces

no hesitation.

I’m just a piece of a machine,

but the fuel and oil makes me nauseous,

each bite sitting in the stomach

like slowly cracking panes of glass.

The textures overwhelming,

opting for the same choices,

again and again, and again and again,

hoping for a change somewhere

but doing nothing to inspire it.

Alienated beyond belief,

such a small thing to all others,

paints a vivid portrait of pain

and leaves its paint dripping out in 3D

growing into a fluid grabbing hand

tightly clasped

around the throat,

its mark left and hard to wash

away.

I sit down

before my plate of worms

my hands shiver slightly,

throat blockaded, stomach nauseous,

and starve one day more,

and one day more,

until my body is skeletal

and anything will have to do.