Hungry

My stomach twists and contracts, shouting unusual commands to the rest of the bus passengers. A woman that looks like she could be anyone's mother gives me a polite smile. I smile back, sweating, cursing her for acknowledging my situation. Does anyone have a bagel? I lean foreward--almost to stretch out my stomach. I can feel the inner walls of it being sucked together. I gather a ball of spit in my mouth and swallow. There, that should keep you satisfied for a while. My stomach sends another loud declaration to the rest of the bus. I look outside for distraction. Benny's Bagels. Star Foods. Inboden's Meat Market. Pike's Garden. Does anyone have a candy bar? I feel weak all over, the floor of the bus is looking mighty comfortable. Does anyone have a Coke? I sift through my backpack one more time, searching for a lost stick of gum, or even a flavored tube of chapstick. Does anyone have a granola bar? We pass by a McDonalds, and the bus is consumed by the warm smell of...McDonalds. Does anyone have some extra fries? I slouch down in my seat and close my eyes. I think of my mom's house, and how the pasta would already be waiting, steaming, on the table. Now I am alone, a person with a full stomach would call it independent. My stop. I jog across the street to the drug store and buy a king size Snickers.

i'm always hungry.<br>i lust for something more.

Funny, whenever I see this word, my stomach begins to feel empty. Linguistically, an everlasting self-fulfilling prophecy....

aetherians is select group of people living on sole air and water escaping the problem of exhaustion by digesting, they need a lot of sun because their body uses the same mechanism as plants do.

Hell attaches no adjectives to a chronic cough like that of a hungry Pokemon drowning in a cracked bowl of melted hail and stale juice.

He looked at me real hard. He laughed. Short. They want what you got but they don´t wand you. They want what I got only it ain´t mine. That´s what makes ´em so hungry for me when I sing. They getting the flavor of something but they ain´t getting the thing itself. They like a pack of hound dogs trying to gobble up a scent.
You talking ´bout your fans?
Right. Right. He says.