I’m not hungry.
Boredom is strung along these walls.
These purple pillars, as borderline as the superfluously slipping of emotions that drift.

This isn’t me
It wasn’t real.
I keep telling myself if I stay awake it won’t come back.

I’m not hungry.

This isn’t new.
This isn’t at all true.
I don’t want to close my eyes and start dreaming.

Holding onto the slightest bit of what’s left, I find.
There’s an awfully fragmented thin line.

Between the whispering and snickering, is the cravings.
The inner howling heard from the outside.

I can’t discern.
There’s a constant lingering being naming itself, Hunger.

This isn’t me.
It wasn’t real.
It never happened to me.
Keeping on, keeping my eyes wide and alert.
If I stay awake, it’ll never come for me.

But I’m not hungry.


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