I chewed the whole damn lot up today,
put it in my mouth, stamped the packaging flat;
let the smooth caramel of sickness
drain down my throat, like a leper,
back from rainy streets.
Finally, silence.

I can't equate what you do
with what I do:
it's not the same.
I can't walk the street the hooker walks, or
smile like I meant to.
I want my loneliness back.

Crunching down on the finest slivers of what
this poor restaurant offers, I am weary,
alive, and
let it be said, waiter,
still hungry.