Everything i Can't Say

I'm not hungry

I'm not hungry. I'm not hungry when the ranch starts

to turn clear. I'm not hungry when the meat starts to

feel and tastes like meat. I'm not hungry. But not for the

reasons that you think. I'm not hungry when I have to

pour the almost expired milk down the sink and the

cheese is starting to stink. I'm not hungry when I feel

an unexpected crunch in my food where it's not

supposed to be. When the egg starts feeling eggy or

when water collects on top of solid dairy. When water

is left out for too long and unattended. My wait time to

eat becomes extended becomes I'm not hungry. I'm not

trying to be funny. But food scares me. I'm not hungry

when you cook. So don't give me that look. I'm not

hungry when my vegetables have a middle that looks

like slime because in my mind it should be a crime. Or

when I can eat the same foods for weeks and months

over and over again but get repulsed by tasting it again.

It feels different. It tastes different. I gag. I'm not

hungry. I'm not hungry when there is remnants of food

and different sauce on the plate washing away with the

water. I'm not hungry. And I'll be lucky if I can force

myself to eat anymore that day. Stop offering me that.

Because I'm not hungry. When I can feel the oatmeal go

down or the broth of the soup won't slide down. I know

I'll choke. I can't swallow right now. The food has to be

predictable and consistent. Otherwise I can't choke it

down. You can't convince me my drink isn't

contaminated. It tastes and feels different. Something is

definitely in it. But instead of saying all these things

that you wouldn't understand. I'll just say. 

I'm not hungry.