“Are you hungry? “
“Have you eaten?”
My mother asked as I
entered the house.
I was withdrawn and silent.
She assumed it was because
I was famished from my after-school activities.
I then quickly muttered
“No, I’m not hungry “
With a monotonous tone, as rehearsed
and routine as ever.
I had an appetite for something she
couldn’t even conceive that I
would require.
I yearned to say something,
but I could not find the words
to describe what I
was experiencing.
So I muted my melancholy.
I starved myself.
I skipped a meal after
every unspoken tragedy.
Like a child who’d suddenly lost their appetite
after stomaching the trauma of misery.
A catastrophic scene
that devours you for a lifetime.
The climax that will
remind you of the time you
failed to rise to action.
The day you will become a victim
in the plot of your own life.
I lost my appetite
on restless nights when I
felt the world could no longer be my home.
There were times I would thirst
for the understanding of what I
was enduring,
but all my mother could provide me
was a sandwich.
I was so hungry but I refused to speak.
I couldn’t admit that I craved someone
To reassure me
that everything was gonna be okay.
So I Suffered in Silence
Many moments came when I
felt life was no longer a choice.
I had to digest the fact that I
would never be fulfilled.
A hard pill to swallow.
Silent starving, scared
in solitude
You are not alone.
People go to bed hungry every night,
because they would rather swallow their sorrows
then spill their sadness
all over the dinner table.
