Written by, John C.

I wake up to the gnaw, the claw, the whisper—
a voice that slithers in my veins,
coiling around my ribs like a python with patience.
It doesn’t scream; it seduces,
doesn’t demand; it devours.

I tell myself, not today.
Today I will walk past the fire
without dipping my hands into the flames.
Today I will not dance with the demons
who trace my scars like they wrote the script of my ruin.
Today I will breathe.
Deep.
Slow.
Unshackled.

But hunger—hunger is a ghost
and it does not need a body to haunt me.
It lingers in the hollow of my gut,
in the tremor of my hands,
in the tightrope stretched between my mind and my madness.
I see it in reflections—
dark eyes rimmed with need,
lips chapped with regret,
the echo of every promise I have shattered
ringing against my teeth.

It tells me,
You are not sick. You are not lost.
You are just thirsty, just hungry, just waiting.
And the hunger lies.
And I believe it.

So I reach.
Not because I want it,
but because wanting has become the language of my body,
the only alphabet my fingers still remember.
One hit. One sip. One pill. One flame.
One step closer to the abyss
that still calls me by name like a lover who never learned to let go.

I sink.
And the weight is familiar,
like an old coat in winter,
like an old friend with a knife behind his back.
And I ask myself,
“Is this living?”

Somewhere, a future version of me is screaming.
Somewhere, the child I used to be is weeping.
Somewhere, a version of myself without chains
is running through fields I have never seen,
breathing air I have never tasted,
laughing like I have never known hunger.

I close my eyes.
I choose to listen.
Not today.
Not tonight.
Not ever again.

And the hunger howls—
but I let it starve.

Published in A New Leaf – August 2025