“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I was withdrawn and silent.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.