They gnaw at the edges of me, 
little sharp-toothed things with hollow eyes, 
crawling from the cracks in my skull 
to lap at the marrow of my thoughts. 

I used to fight them. 
I used to starve them. 
But hunger makes them cruel. 

So now I lay the table. 
Silver plates of regret, 
goblets brimming with old wounds, 
a banquet of memories too raw to swallow. 

They eat well. 
They grow fat. 
And I grow thin, 
hollowed out like a carcass left in the sun, 
picked clean by things with my voice, 
my hands, 
my hunger.