I can’t eat that bread,
because his hands are dirty
and he looks at me 
like he is God. I feel his eyes
on my body, hollow and empty,
like a vacuum, trying to swallow
what was left of me,
what was left of me?
Bones, I think,
and skin.
Blood, but I hardly noticed that
Not my God, something whispered,
but it wasn’t my voice
because mine was gone, gone
with the body I no longer had
because I had finally caved in
and there was nothing left of me.
Not my God.
Not my bread.
Nailah Smith
Published in Issue 40