existential dread

They gnaw at the edges of me, little sharp-toothed things with hollow eyes, crawling from the cracks in my skull to lap at the marrow of my thoughts. I used to fight them. I used to starve them. But hunger makes them cruel. So now I lay the table. Silver plates of regret, goblets brimming with old wounds, a banquet of memories too raw to swallow. They eat well. They grow fat. And I grow thin, hollowed out like a carcass left in the sun, picked clean by things with my voice, my hands, my hunger.