Empty

There are some nights when food tastes like sit-ups and listerine soaked cotton balls,
And even when my stomach is howling for food, I cannot pretend that I do not enjoy the feeling; the feeling of being utterly empty.
I cannot say that the feeling of ice cold water slipping down in the empty hole of my stomach doesn't feel euphoric, that I don't enjoy feeling my body beg for me in ways that no one but me could satisfy her.
 
I think that sometime ago it stopped being about my weight, and it turned into needing to be needed; to be the only thing standing between prey and predator,
Except that I was both.
I think that the hatred for food became something else when I could no longer recognize myself in ways I never thought possible.
 
I am not obsessed with being full, I am afraid that I will always be empty.
I am afraid of the fact that I enjoy the calm and quiet cries of my body when I do not feed her like I should, I am afraid of the fact that I like the feeling of being so hungry I am dizzy.
I am afraid that one day, I will be nothing but empty.