The sound of your own hunger

I sat on the floor.

Not on purpose.

Just because

standing felt performative,

like I was preparing

for someone to walk in,

like I needed to be

ready,

upright,

in the correct position

for eating.

So I sat.

Legs crossed.

Takeout container

balanced on my knees.

The apartment was so quiet

I could hear

my own chewing.

Every swallow.

Every breath between bites.

The sound of my fork

scraping the bottom

of the container.

It occurred to me,

sitting there,

that no one knew

I was eating.

No one was watching.

No one would notice

if I finished

or left it half-done.

I could disappear,

I thought.

Just stop existing

right here,

on the kitchen floor,

and it would take

someone days

to find me.

I finished the food.

Wiped my mouth

with the back of my hand.

Sat there longer,

listening

to the apartment

breathe.