I don’t get hungry in my stomach anymore.
I think it’s in my legs,
Or in my armpits.
It’s like an itch I can’t track:
Now on the back of my neck,
Now on the knuckles of my left hand.
A poison ivy spreading over to parts of me I didn’t know could feel want.
“What did you do?”
I have to ask.
I have concerns.
But bottomless pits and voids do not give answers,
Only echoes:
“What did you do?”
What did I do,
What did I do,