I bite the hands that feeds me so that maybe it'll let me starve.

Despite the bones that form a cage around my heart, it still claws it's way out of my body, begging for someone to see it.

I fortify the walls; my heart beats slower.

It's rhythmic thumps grow weary.

If nobody is there to hear it beat, why can't it just be still?

The hand no longer feeds me, yet the growl of my stomach provides me no comfort.

I won't be satisfied until I can see my bones through my skin.

I won't be satisfied until my lips are blue, until my lungs no longer hold air.

I'll never be satisfied.

Even when my heart goes silent, there will still be something wrong.

No matter how hard I bite the hand, it still eventually comes back to feed me.

Let me starve.