feast
“that’s quite a feast you got there.”
.
three years ago,
i was ravenous.
falcons pecked away at what was left of me,
and i had forgotten what it was like to feel alive,
and with each part of me i lost,
i thought,
“this is me,”
starved and tired of grappling
for the hope of a meal
for the hope of a life
for the hope of tomorrow.
and then i got it --
a feast,
an endless platter of opportunity
and health
and life
and bit by bit,
i thought i was piecing myself together again.
.
three years from then,
i am tired.
the feast continues;
i have guests now, but
we all eat in uncomfortable silence.
we’re not hungry;
we’re just waiting for this to be over.
the food has no taste,
and no matter how much i of it i gorge
the mountain of it persists.
it greys around the edges from the days i’ve spent
just watching it stay there,
ominous,
knowing,
taunting,
expectant.
.
what the hell do you expect from me anyway?
.
“that’s quite a feast you’ve got there.”
yes -- and so?
what would you like me to say?
what are you thinking?
that i’m lucky; that i’m spoiled;
that i’m not allowed to look so dull,
so grey,
so tired,
so faded,
when preparing for another day of this feast?
.
three years ago,
the feast came at my death bed.
i prayed to stay alive,
even as i was taken apart
piece by piece.
