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Feast on Me.

Of pain and artistry. Must I feel to make art? I must for art is made to feel. 

This is about the hollowness, the space where your flesh feels exposed on the battlefield.

You have done all you could, yet it is still not enough. To be seeking fulfillment amidst emptiness. But only finding more of it. 

I am quite drawn to writing in metaphors of cannibalism and certainly grotesque topics. I have strayed away from it as I write more and more but I feel as though there is some emotion that can't be captured without such extreme symbolism. 

And this is one of those times. 

I swallow pain as if it were medication to feel happiness, yet I feel none; all I feel is numb.

Pain cannot offer me beautiful suffering; my tears will never write stories, I know.

My body has never felt the youth it craved. It has felt the hands of an overworked man, the tongue of an overzealous youth, and the teeth of a broken dream.

I carved a space for love, but no one filled it. I carve a space for myself, and I find my knees bruised as I beg for something I don't know.

The void in my heart never filled. The ache in my bones never felt. To feel whole again, I wish every day.

To part with what makes me whole. What did my childhood give me but the knack to swallow pain and feel love given to you swallowed the same?

The bite of unsaid things scars me just as it does you. But my teeth dig in further, feeling me raw, and I don't stop. To eat myself would mean to feel my disgust. And so I make a meal of myself.

Somehow, I wasn't the only one at the feast.

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