I feed my habits
And ignore my needs
As distasteful as it seems
My plan succeeds
I plant the seeds
That grow the weeds
Won't feed myself
I starve, deceased.

Dating as a single parent is a strange thing.
You have to open yourself
And learn to trust someone new
And new is petrifying
But when you do
It feels like you're suspended in air.
Your heart is again warm, your belly full of butterflies.
A kind of feeling your children cannot give you.
Something different.
Everything is perfect
And then something changes.
Suddenly theyre not there
A void is once again opening
Your presence is no longer welcomed
And you cant explain it because they wont.
Sleep eludes you like a promised meteor shower on a cloudy night.
Food now feels like poison on its journey to your starving stomach.
Your body is weak from the malnutrition that this love was feeding your soul.
The trust you gave them is now shattered
And all of the words you heard from your past comes alive and deafens you once again
"Youre nothing without me"
"No one will ever love you"
"You'll be a young single parent and no one wants that"
Doubt will crush your soul
Again
And again
And again.
But you remember.
Youre a mother.
The bringer of life
And snacks.
You have dried tears and kissed ouchies
You have been the protector of your children
And now, you have to be the protector of yourself.
One day you'll wake up,
A little lighter
A little hungier
A little happier

You saw them suffering everyday as you passed by
So somedays you threw money in their little tin can
But their pain lies far beneath the surface
Homelessness is an illness that costs more than pocket change to cure
Starvation and injustice can't be paid with a full tin can
Their lifestyles cant be changed with ten thousand cans of change

It’s been 48 hours since food last touched my lips
48 hours of pain and starvation
I don’t mean to starve myself
I just can’t help it
I look at myself in the mirror;
With disgust and disapproval
I am not choosing the hunger
But when I look at food, I automatically become sick
I think of the times I’ve cried over my body
The hours I’ve spend ridiculing every stretchmark,
Fat roll,
Wrinkle,
Every inch of myself that is less than subpar in my eyes
Do you think I want to be like this?
I sit and sleep;
instead of eat
My stomach growls
Sounds like thunder on a dry summers day
Speaking to me and telling me to stop being a ******* idiot
I tell you I haven’t eaten and your response is clear
But what does it matter to me what you think
At the end of the day you aren’t the one whose hungry
You aren’t the one who pushes her body to the point of breaking all in the name of beauty
Oh to be beautiful
Seems so easy
Especially when those words roll off your tongue
But I flinch in pain
As my body begins to eat itself
And you sense something is wrong
I tell you I’m fine
But based off the look on my face;
you know it’s not just a stomach ache

i hunger for something i cannot ingest
not because i will choke on it
or because i am allergic to it
not because of its rarity
or because it is unethical to produce

but because
without having tasted it
i began to want it and crave it
without knowing its name
i began to dream about making and consuming it
without even knowing its ingredients
the longing for it began to consume me

i began to starve for its softness between my lips
its give between my bared teeth
its flavor on the tip of my tongue
the aftertaste of its broth in the hollow of my throat

i began to daydream about its weight in my stomach
making me feel comfortable full and yet unbloated
i would eat it for every meal and be satisfied
if i could just find it

at night i lay awake
close my eyes and lick my lips
trying to recall that heavenly taste
i cannot gain access to sleep until i remember it just right
and when i do i dream of devouring it

the thoughts devour me
my stomach caves in
and my ribs and hipbones poke through my
translucent skin
but i will not eat again
not until i found this food
that floods my starving brain

Crying,
Over the bathroom scale because I think the numbers are taunting
Smiling,
Because if people actually saw how I was feeling they'd avoid me.
Hurting,
Because I'd rather bottle it up than tell anyone
Dying,
Because not eating is more appealing than being happy.

Please wait
Help is on the way
cereal box bursting plastic seams
full to the brim
Help is on the way
too many high-sodium high-carbs      
everything that goes up must come down
everything gripped white-palmed hits this polished rock bottom
Help is on the way
is the backpack-bearing bearded man with dirt slathered across flip-flop bare feet not accepted in addition to cash?
See store for details.
I am afraid he will ask me
if I can spare some change but
I have to keep quarters for laundry
pods 25% off
wish I could give him deliverance, tell him
Help is on the way
Please wait
wish I could be a Pharmacists Who Care(s)
I just Pick Up, Go.
Did he fail to follow the instructions
on life
on pin-pad reverberates high-pitched privilege
I am one of the guilty ones
I look at him as if he were already expired
stuff my guilt in the bagging area
please keep all items in the bagging area
I want to leave this one out.
Where is my expiration date
am I only Good Thru a Beauty Guarantee am I only Good Thru 40% percent of my body am I only Good Thru what is seen on tv?
System processing
Please wait
Thank you for shopping

There are starving artists, yes.
But sometimes I think them more nourished,
Healthier,
Wealthier,
Than many with more dollars to their name,
And food to their claim.

Because at her worst, you see,
The starving artist still has this,
At least--
She has her ideas;
Her work;

Her art,
I mean.

The starving artist might be poor,
Losing in the box score
When all is quantified and qualified for measures of
'success'

But the starving artist is free.
He is alive,
He is allowed to be.

And he has his art,
His heart.

Because the worst kind of starving there can be,
You see,
Is to be stale out of ideas--
To be wallowing in writer's block
Staring at the blank canvas in shock
Holding the pen above the paper,
Cocked.

And unable to fire,
To release,
To express.

The worst kind of starving artist,
Instead,
Feels repressed.

The worst kind of starvation
Is malnourishment,
Not of the soul,
But of the heart--

Of art.

Cracked lips,
starving for just a drop,
running my tongue over them,
hoping that you'll grace me with a few dark clouds,
a rain shower,
no matter how brief.
The crackling lightning and thunder
would be a welcome consequence
to the desperate vying for your attention.
I drag my anguished limbs across the expanse of your sand and clay floor,
wavering between a hope for an end,
and a hope that if I keep going
and prove myself,
that you'll put me out of my misery yourself.
Your sun beats down on me with a hot weight
that I've grown used to.
In the distance,
visions of lush, green-dusted mountains dance,
but I learned long ago that they remain at the same distance,
no matter how far I walk.
I've had fantasies of shimmering lakes
and Edens full of colorful blossoms and succulent fruits,
but despite my hunger,
despite my thirst,
and despite the aches that burden my body,
the most beautiful delusion I've succumbed to,
is one of you,
appearing before me,
and holding out your arms in that perfect, sweet embrace,
knowing that it would relieve my every ailment.

Did you know there are more than 500,000 homeless people in America?
A quarter of them children.
Boston has one of the highest homeless populations in this country.
1 in 8 Americans live on an income that put them at risk for hunger.
Do you know how hard it is out there? Do you know how easy it is to be homeless? And how people look at them with shameful eyes?
You're 47 and you just got fired from your job cause it's overstuffed you missed rent for two months, momma isn't gonna help you! You don't have any money in your savings because you had to pay off college loans and debt.
You're 19 and you get pregnant and you want the baby, you want to have this beautiful child. But your boyfriend leaves you and your parents won't accept it.
Life doesn't give a **** what your situation is, this world doesn't give a **** how you got homeless because if you're homeless you're seen as less than. Why are you seen as less than? I bet some of those people know more than you or I or he or she do. I bet they can offer you words that would blow your mind. And because they got fired, or made a mistake that they couldn't come back from we look at them and turn our heads as we walk by them, we donate money at Christmas to show we "cared but do we really?
Yesterday at my work we threw away 16 pounds of food waste and I seriously felt some type of pain ring through my body
Because I knew that could've fed ONE homeless person for weeks or multiple homeless people for the evening.
I just wanted to take it and stuff it into one of our **** salad bowls and go dish it out to anyone I saw who needed it.
Can you imagine not being able to eat for days because you can't even afford the $1.00 honey buns in the starz markets?
And people pretend they don't hear you when you ask them to help with food.
Why do we look at these people, who just want food, who just want warmth, and need a home, as if they're someone who ruined our country.
Rather then giving them the a look of embarrassment, give them a look of kindness.