They feed on me,
So I feed myself,
My hands move,
Incessantly,
To the mouth that feeds.

Food is fuel,
Yet food is fear,
And the food I fear
Despises me.

It loathes me,
And numbs me,
And in return,
I loathe myself,
So I numb myself.

The cycle spins—
Round and round,
Endless loathing,
Endless numbing.

But in a mindful moment—
a reprieve from the nauseating cycle—
I see pause, breath,
Choice.

To starve the hand,
That feeds the feeders,
Until the feeders,
Have no fuel,
To feed on me again.