Filled

I eat, I eat. I think, how silly of me to describe what it feels like, eating, because you eat. You already know. But then I think, how could you know what this feels like without wanting more, always, always, how could anyone keep a hold of their life when there is so much food always around, always there, for just a bit or maybe a lot of money? How does the world carry on the way it does, as if it didn’t constantly ache? I salivate. It tastes salty, smoky—ham and bacon and mayonnaise. The bread doesn’t leave a taste behind but fits warmly into my stomach, holding me from the inside. I am filled, but I am not full. I am never full.