My soul is hungry.
She's been surviving for so long on junk food, appetite suppressants and my willful attempts to ignore her pangs. I've even managed to (mostly) convince myself that my hunger is wrong, and that I have no right to need the nourishment I desperately crave. I've forced guilt upon myself for wanting what I want out of life. Denigrating my desire as a lack of gratitude, or some kind of ego trip.
I'm not interested in fighting for table scraps, fallen from the plates of those who were born with silver spoons in their oh-so-perfect mouths. The hustle, they call it. Wallowing on the floor, pushing others away, grasping at little morsels of fulfillment and success that only keep you hungry. They say it proves you really want what you're after. I've told myself I'd rather starve. And many times, I have.
They say there's only so much to go around. It's a lie.
They say there's only one right way to get your fill. It's a lie.
They say the table is too tall for you; the food too rich for your blood; the company too elite for you to be able to hold your own. Lies.
Why don't you go to the kitchen and see if the cook has anything left over for you there?