There is nothing left to eat
but their stomach still churn
and the emergency shut off switch
that will keep them from being hungry anymore
is forever at arms length.

They've watched themselves waste away
trying to feed their swollen bellies on clothes,
hair, shoes, skin, rocks and fingernails.
All slid down their dry throats
and retched their putrid stomachs.

Instead of huddled together for warmth,
they seperate themselves,
hoping the isolation will allow the cold to take them away,
to freeze their hearts and brains.
To allow them to not be cold and hungry, but feel nothing.

Grasping a wet stick in his gnarled hands
one of them tilts his head back
and shoves it into his throat
like a sword swallower on a budget,
and he gags and wretches and dry heaves.

He bends over on his knees
the stick still in his esophagus,
and around the wet, grey bark expells acid,
pure stomach acid onto the ground and burning his teeth.
His body shives but his eyes show triumph.

Maybe they once had genders
maybe they once had ages
but now they have lost their individualites
and remain stinking and pale as the hungry,
the ones not good enough for death.

Eyelidless eyes stare and match into another
pair of sore conjuctivitis infected *****
Blinking but incapable of the solace of sleep,
as they impatiently wait for something,
anything to happen.