I don’t know what to eat. I haven’t known for a while now. And there’s only five tastes to chose from, but it’s not just five, is it? There’s at least a million unique combinations of meals and flavours. But I’ve tried a couple, and they don’t satisfy me. Maybe they never did, and maybe nothing will.

Excuses, and excuses.

I can never make up my mind. I say I never learned how to eat. But is that the truth? Maybe I know more than I tell others. Maybe I know it all—how to add the food to my plate, pick up the spoon, chew, and wolf it down—but knowing is never enough.

You see how I’m starving and I convince you I’m not hungry anymore. I’ll be fine, I can wait. I’ll wait, and wait. I’ll wait until I’m not hungry anymore. Even though I don’t know how that will happen, I never try anything new and I’m never satisfied. I’m never full. But I’ll wait and it’ll all be fine. (Are you convinced?)

One day someone will teach me what I already know. They’ll put the food in my bowl, pick up the spoon.

“Here comes the airplane.”

I’ll be patronised and maybe then I’ll be full.

No. That’s not what I want. I’ll wait and for what? To be patronised? I’m starving, I don’t need a teacher, or a mother, a father. I need to eat but I’m going about this all wrong. I don’t want to be hungry anymore, yet hunger feels more real. I’m here and I’m starving, and I can never be full.

What will I be when I am? What will I be without my asceticism? I say I know my worth yet I deserve to starve. Who is this for?

One day someone will call me out on my feigned stupidity. They’ll say I know how to eat, and they’ll help me. Maybe this is another excuse. Because I can’t help myself, I never learned to.