“I’ll bite the hand that feeds me, so that maybe it’ll let me starve,”

These words that I carve

Straight into my heart,

Staring, staring at the empty shopping cart.

What do I deserve?

A criminal, my time which I should serve,

Lazy, stupid, a narcissist drunk on self-hate,

I’ll starve soon enough, just wait.

What does it matter,

If I’m sick, if I’m tired, if I’ve stopped getting fatter?

They only kill the pigs with the most meat,

If I’m broken and ill, it’s me who they might keep.

Look at the bruises, oh, look at these scars,

Guess I’ll collect them like you collect vintage cars.

I hate the questions and I hate the stares,

It’s not like anyone even cares.

One hundred fifty words wasted on this,

My rhymes have never earned a dime nor a kiss,

But it doesn’t matter, let me rot, my skin which I’ll carve,

I’ll bite the hand that feeds me, so that maybe it’ll let me starve.