I’m always hungry,
so I’m always eating,
and I’m always growing,
even though I can always hear the wind whistling
around my chest,
cold lashes that escape when I open my mouth,
freeze the air when I try to speak.
So I tell myself,
“One more slice of cake,
on a lonely Sunday,
surely can’t hurt”,
right?
I wait for a reply,
from the empty room,
but I’m already licking
the crumbs off my fingers.
I want to
gorge
on happiness,
drink down mugs
of sweet nothings
that will make my heart stretch
instead of my stomach.
God knows,
I have enough room
in this swollen rib cage.