I bite the hand that feeds me

so it knows I’m not afraid of blood.

I chew through the bone just to see if it’ll snap first

or if I will.

I'm tired of begging with my eyes,

acting like hunger ain’t the same as hurt.

A plate ain't a gift when it’s been poisoned,

ain't it funny how I still swallow it down?

**They say be grateful.**

Thank the hands that build the cage,

smile at the chains.

But I can't remember the last time my ribs didn't feel like bars,

my teeth grinding on the inside,

trying to break free of my own skull.

If this is survival, I’d rather starve.

I’m tired of standing in line for scraps,

acting like that’s enough.

A little shame with every mouthful,

a little guilt just for tasting.

I don’t want it. I don't.

But what else is there?

Nothing but this hollow,

this bottomless pit in my gut

that keeps swallowing and swallowing

until there’s nothing left of me

but the echo.

I bite the hand that feeds me

so maybe it’ll stop reaching.

Maybe if I bleed enough,

it’ll know I’m done pretending to be grateful,

done pretending it doesn’t hurt.

And I get it.

I’m the problem.

I ruin what’s given to me

because I can’t accept the catch.

How could you, though?

When every gift comes with a hook

like it’s bait, like I’m the fish

waiting to be gutted.

People act like it’s simple.

Like you can just say, _thank you_

and choke it down.

But that doesn’t stop the ache.

Doesn’t stop the fact that I don’t feel fed,

just full of emptiness.

So, yeah, I bite the hand that feeds me.

Because I’m sick of feeling like a dog

in a house that’s on fire,

and all anyone says is, _be good,_

_be quiet, sit still._

Maybe if I bite back,

they’ll let me burn in peace.