Hunger

I don’t need your apology.

But I wonder if it lingers in your belly—

an ulcer you pretend not to feel,

doing damage long after the meal is over.

You consumed my savory stories,

sampling me like a delicacy,

as if I were your private pantry.

But you fed my secrets

to anyone willing to taste.

I could never swallow

the bitterness of your betrayal.

I wonder if you miss

how my laugh nourished

the silences you left empty,

how I offered you my finest portions,

cuts I shared with no one else.

Did it ever fill you—

the part of me you spit out so casually?

And when I cross your mind,

I hope it’s not the woman

you served to those with hungry ears,

but the one you should’ve

savored for yourself.

I hope it stings your tongue—

a bitter aftertaste—

the flavor of everything you took,

everything you chewed up.

People aren’t meant to be devoured.

Maybe tonight,

as you sit at your table,

you’ll notice the empty chair

that should’ve been mine.

Maybe you’ll feel it—

the absence of someone

who gave you her best courses

and only ever craved

to be treated like the sweetest part.

Regret is its own kind of hunger,

and I wonder—

are you starving tonight?