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.

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

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

It is good to be hungry, especially hungry for Hungarian goolosh.

the crow is hungry for what life does not give to the innocent, to rip and to tear away that which has been already taken.

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.