Photo by Virginia Johnson on Unsplash
the voices in my head have nothing to eat,
so, they feed on my insecurities.
they are not picky eaters;
they simply eat whichever one they
sink their sharpened teeth into first.
such insatiable thirst.
they could swallow each thought in one gulp,
but they would rather savor the pungent flavor
of my self-inflicted wounds.
they lick their lips, their fingertips,
savoring every last drop of crimson
trickling down their chin.
indulgent, greedy.
always needing more.
luckily for them, there’s plenty to go around.
they could come back for seconds, thirds,
fourths, and there’d be plenty of
vulnerabilities leftover.
scores and scores.
the voices in my head have nothing to eat.
they are rabid with hunger, salivating.
they are ravenous like wolves.
and, with teeth like thorns,
they swarm.
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