I bite the hand that feeds me,

teeth sharp with pride and spite,

I’ll let them starve me slowly,

to feel the burn of fight.

Their kindness tastes like weakness,

and I refuse to bow,

I'd rather choke on nothing,

than bend and break somehow.

Let hunger be my master,

let emptiness consume,

I’ll feed on hollow echoes,

and starve beneath the moon.

For power's in the starving,

in turning from the bread—

I bite the hand that feeds me,

and feast on what’s unsaid.