at the end of the street

at the end of the street,
there is the tiniest of houses,
in which lives the smallest of people,
with the biggest of hearts.

their giving often going unnoticed,
their tired eyes, never thanked.

the day comes when the most miniature
of families
snaps.

surprised looks on corpses' faces
as they lay on porches
and in the streets.
slashed, beaten and bloody.

the family returns, unaffected.
to their tiny house
at the end of the street
where they wait.

they join for dinner,
staring out their window,
excited for the chance to do good,
repeating their cycle of give and take.

the hunger

the hunger, strong and manipulative.

the weak, sure to give in to

the hunger's soft cooing, drawing

the people nearer, taking them.

the hunger has broken my will

the desire to shrivel, desire to be thin.

the hunger calls me and rattles the walls.

the noises are noticed but not responded to, at all.

the hunger, my enemy. the food, my poison
the more it lures me, the faster I run.
the hunger must be fought, though I am frail.
the thought of feeding, my worst nightmare.
the hunger has made me what I am;
the small, weak, shadow of who I once was.
the hunger is shrinking me, killing me;
the more I ache, the more hollow I become.
the hunger has got a hold, a grip so tight.
the sun doesn't shine for me anymore,
the hunger keeps the clouds up above,
the sign of my sickness, unfixable, I rot.
the hunger, you can eat, or you can not.