I can feel your skull getting crushed by my teeth, and it was so fragile my jaw didn’t even hinge. You’re not worth my time, and yet here I am, eating your flesh and feasting on your fears. I hate you, and I can’t stand the sight of you. If I could, I would blow the whole world up so not even your dust could blossom into something new.

I want your end. I don’t care that you are my food. I’ll starve to death. I’m already starving, and you know it. It makes you happy—to see me like you see yourself: weak, ghoulish, a ghost of what I haven’t yet become.

Time goes on, and you seem unaffected. You exist beyond what’s real, and so it doesn’t matter how long I wait or which direction I move; if I can’t stop the idea of you, I will always have to devour you again.

Disgusting, indigestible, grotesque, insignificant, malnourishing, my shadow, myself, me.