Hunger

Has it been too long, my shadows?  Have I been trapped in amber and lost you?  Are you ragged and tattered, cobwebs and wisps, keening in the darkest deeps of the Lament, moaning your anguish at being abandoned?

No.

No, I think not, my beloved shades.

You know I cannot leave you for very long.  You're too much part of me.

I have been distracted, but you're still here with me.

Are you hungry?  Shall I feed you?  I didn't realize how starved we were, all of you and me too, until lately.

We're prowling, now, aware of the emptiness and wondering how to fill  it.  Beware.  Beware!  So very hungry...

I felt full.  Didn't I?  Wasn't I?  But it takes more than one meal, even a feast, to keep one from feeling those pangs.  It takes regular meals of filling stuffs, a constant diet of healthy things.  It hasn't been healthy, has it?  No.  We have supped on fairy floss and empty promises, illusions and words devoid of action and therefor meaning, and we didn't notice that we were rotting.

We.

Me.

Empty and rotting.

How have I not noticed that I was starving?

Something happened.  A word, one word, showed me.

Cunt.

Hard, sharp, reminiscent of unpleasant things and ugliness, cunt.

Something died.  I don't know if it can be revived.  There is only so much.  I have limits.  They are far, far past "normal", but I do have them.  Apparently "cunt" is one of them.  Something died.

Something died and I looked around and felt sad and pained and lonely, and hungry.

And there you were, my poor dark places, forlorn and waiting.

Waiting for me to come back and give myself over to you, let you gnaw on my bones.  Go on then, darklings.  Go on.  Eventually I may find my footing, find what will fill...fulfill...and you will have to wait and see if I return regularly or leave you again to your own devices.