Hungry

I am starving.

Every day, starving.

The world sets the table,

silver platters gleaming,

Knives and fork’s polished with venom.

Hate is the only course.

Bitterness, the bread.

Violence, the wine.

And we are told to swallow.

But my stomach revolts,

it growls for tenderness,

for hands that linger in gentleness,

for laughter not drenched in cruelty,

for a love un-poisoned.

I hunger for something rare,

something holy,

something the world seems to have forgotten exists.

I hunger for love.

But, everywhere I look I see clenched fists where there should be open palms.

I see sharp tongues that act as daggers,

I see, hearts rusted shut.

The feast of hate is endless.

Refills, refills, refills.

A banquet of venom,

an ocean of knives,

but no nourishment;

only the ache of emptiness growing louder inside me.

Gnawing,

pounding,

screaming.

And yet,

still I hunger.

Still, I wait with my bowl outstretched,

believing one day someone will place into my hands something warm,

something alive,

something that tastes like love.