Starving

At times a fear creeps in.

Are my bones protruding, does my skin peel away?

Is my face gaunt and sallow, my lips cracked and flaking?

At times a fear creeps in, as he stretches out his hand toward me, a feeble attempt to caress my sunken cheeks, to tenderly stroke brittle and dull straggles of hair that cover my face.

The fear leaks from the corners of my psyche, cascading from dry, bloodshot eyes down the length of my neck, further to my hollow chest and soaks into scraps of tired, dirt-caked fabric I use to cover my hellish figure.

The fear of being seen, the fear that the illusion will fall away the moment his fingers meet my flesh.

Fear that his gaze will travel to my gaped mouth, saliva pooling on my tongue, spilling out onto his palms, to the uneven ground beneath us.

And when he does, when he finally bears witness, when the haze breaks and clarity resumes, will he fear my hunger?

Or will he let me consume?

Let me eat, I pray. Let me eat.