I lied about being hungry.

From the first moment—

newborn skin, wet with tears,

to the last,

eyes hollow, staring through

hospital lights.

I cried, and they fed me,

saying I needed to eat

to get better, to grow.

But what if I don’t want to?

_ Tell me—was Eve starving_

_ when she reached for the fruit?_

_ Was it hunger, or something else—_

_ something she didn’t even understand?_

If I starved myself for seven days,

and my mother came into

my room with a plate of bread,

of cheese, of flowers wilting in water,

and whispered —_Eat_—

would I?

She doesn’t know that

when your stomach is empty

there are twice as many stars

and that at three in the morning,

if you look through a telescope

long enough, you can see aliens

dancing on mars.

If you stay hungry,

you’ll stop needing the comfort

of fullness. And if you’re not

chasing fullness,

aren’t you free

from the endless want?

But maybe I don’t know

what I’m talking about.

_An owl, resting in a magnolia tree,_

_ told me so, and warned me—_

_ Do not pluck the blooms,_

_ no matter their beauty—_

_ they are not yours to keep._

I’m tired of going to bed

hungry and waking full.

At night, I think a fairy sneaks

into my room and feeds me,

smooths my hair with her

glittering hands.

In the morning,

I can still feel them.

One night, I bite her.

I bite the hand that feeds me,

so that maybe it will

let me starve.

Then I go and find where

all the fairies hide,

(_which is in a tree with _

_the initials F.H. carved_)

line them up,

and inspect their hands

until I find the one

with my bite marks.

She looks at me with pity

“_Darling you’ve got the teeth_

_of a shark, It’s _

_such a shame you’ve chosen_

_hungry for a heart._”

I think she looks kind of like

if the sun were a god.