~ Hunger of something … ~

 ~ Hunger of something … ~ 

Anything,

Piercing,

Stabbing like a blunt rusted knife,

Cutting me deep,

But with ‘extra’ weighing pain …

I’d just elegantly fold my bleeding wings,

Cocooning my hurt-self,

From the din of the throbs,

Of the ugly-faced expectation’s blobs,

Mirth, fair-skinned, shelling me from outside,

Petulant nee, going green, puking, culling inside,

And, look, I’d still smile, smile, smile,

Smiling until,

My lips learn to stay upturned,

Forming into a sunny, gentle, true curve … elusive of any dimple …

And something would happen … then,

Felt such closely,

As if filling my little going-blue pouches with bounty air —

Touching an apparition — classily,

That, the blunt knife was nothing,

But, an honest delusion,

Of my famished, fretted life …

Now, the question that fester is —

Am I really so, so hungry,

To feed myself on such sincere, beautiful-eyed lies?