they call me tyranosaurus-mouth.

i feel restless.
i feel anxious; like i'm waiting for someone, or for something spectacular, astounding, revolutionary.
i feel like i'm moving slowly.
& i can't stop rubbing my legs, scratching my toes, tapping & drumming my fingers

to the escalating beat of my wild, fever-frenzied heart.

& i'm starving.
i want to eat.
& eat.

& eat.

& eat.

two beef tacos, all the trimmings plus spicy honey mustard sauce. one leftover piece of pepperoni pizza, one leftover piece of garlic chicken pizza, one leftover & abandoned crust--toppings of the original pizza: unknown. four chocolate mint brownies & a cup of milk, brownies microwaved on high for ten seconds. two beef tacos, all the trimmings plus spicy honey mustard sauce. fried tortilla with butter & cinnamon glaze. two beef tacos, all the trimmings plus spicy honey mustard sauce. the rest of the chips in the family sized ruffles bag. five chocolate mint brownies & a cup of chocolate milk, brownies microwaved on high for fifteen seconds. one sleeve ritz crackers. one twix bar, king sized. one can vienna sausages, split with the cat.

& it's not one o'clock yet.
& i want more. i'm not full. not even close.
i feel like using. i feel addicted, cloudy.
i feel like june and july and early august.
& i want more.

more food. more cigarettes. more sleep. more conversation. more movement. more sex. more alcohol. more xanax, pot, heroin, suboxone, methadone, vicodin, percoset, adderall, adderall, adderall. way, way, way more.

& i don't want it.

i need it.

& that's why i hate missing
morning med cart.

i'm so goddam hungry.
i'm starving.
& it doesn't matter how many helpings i take.
i feel like june and july and early august.
& no matter how much i take.

it can't possibly be enough.