I am always craving, always empty.
Yet it is not my body that writhes in starvation,
it is my mind.
She is ravenous, always yearning.
She constantly demands to unwrap some delicacy,
to taste inspiration.
She is unsatisfied, always chattering.
She requests something surprising,
“more, more, more.”
She has only once been sated.
Her incessant pleas only once muted,
just once, satisfied.
“Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.”
She implored.
So I did.
Bite by bite, I fed her something new.
From the spoon slipped the musings of Phoebe Bridgers.
Coating her tongue with delicate melodies,
presenting her pallet with something fresh.
She would moan softly at the intimacy of the language.
Her teeth sunk into the core of human interaction.
She licked her lips, savoring the introspection.
She cut “Scott Street” with a knife.
Licked the crumbs of “Funeral” from the plate.
She ate “Georgia” with her bare hands.
She sprinkled “Chelsea” with garlic salt.
Slid “Smoke Signals” down her throat.
She even took “Demi Moore” to go.
“Stranger in the Alps.”
That was her favorite meal.
A mind always hungry, finally full.
