On the night in question, I was hungry.
So I found a boy that was hungry too,
hip to hip, we skipped around the party
knowing there would be food later.
Hours past and people left.
My hands aiding my stair climbing
told him it was dinner time that
there would be food later I knew
I kissed him once or twice
before another party boy walked in,
saw me, too drunk to eat
and left, so I could get fed.
"I'm not hungry.
I'm not hungry.
I'm not hungry.
I'm not hungry."
He stood over me with the kind of hunger
that makes food in famine,
that makes the rations his,
that eats first.
He split me open from throat to below, to
own everything my ribs were told to protect,
told to protect myself I laid still,
choking on food I knew there would be food.
There is an unwinding in being force fed
that coats the inside of my skin
tighter than what I had grown
a noose, maybe, I lay in.
I wait for the choking, the burning, to subside
Waiting to breathe and
unable to chew.
I'm so sorry.
Where did I go? Where did I go?
I knew there would be food later
I even wanted there to be food later
but I was grown to be eaten by an animal.
When he is done it is sympathy that lets me breathe,
but he is full so what is left over
gets shoved in his fridge
until someone finds me rotting.
YOU ARE READING
Her Blue Dress: A Collection (Watty's 2019 Winner)
PoetryA collection of poems, cover by: @itsmarrosee || I am the fray at the end of the yarn, cut from the new blanket, before it becomes a gift.