Haven’t I bled my colors dry,
wrung my bones into brittle dust,
laid my soul on the altar of expectation,
only to be asked for more?

The echoes of my name—
demanding, dragging, devouring—
they carve into my ribs,
turning marrow to aching void,
turning breath to borrowed air.

Do I not shimmer with scars enough?
Do my hands not tremble with the weight of giving?
Must I unspool myself further,
pulling, pulling, pulling
until nothing remains but the ghost of a thread?

Tell me, when does the hunger end?
When does the world swallow the last piece of me
and say, enough?