vending machine 

i shake the hunger box.
smell of bat blood & buttercup voices.
the machine says,
"i know you are really a girl."
i say, "i know you are
really an angel."
plastic is a way of saying
"let's not spend too much time here."
passing through town.
when i was a waitress i met
so many people who ate stop signs.
they were ravenous & then
would always send their meals back.
if you don't believe me
there's a scar underneath my tongue
from trying to talk to 
a strange man. sometimes i wake up
in the middle of the night
& find a vending machine
in the corner of my bedroom.
i announce that i am not hungry
but the machine just creeps forward.
coins pour from my mouth
& i try to shove them back in.
despite our best efforts
we're all made of money 
which is another way of saying
made of our own survival.
i try to picture a world where
we don't have to eat our fingers
until there are none left.
i give in & buy a little heart
from the portal. the heart tastes
like raspberry & chocolate. 
i want another & another
& i have enough coins to do so.
who needs self-restraint when the void 
is ripe & ready? when 
all you need to do is beg?