Tighter Grips of Need

 I pulled my belt tighter,

fingers slippery with sweat,

each hole a reminder,
an ache that wouldn’t forget.
The leather shrank in on me,
a harsh, deliberate squeeze,
each notch a cut into my chest,
a price I couldn’t appease.

Once, it was room enough
to breathe, to eat,
now it’s just an endless loop
of hunger in defeat.
I can’t punch another hole,
the metal tongue bit back,
no more space, no more breath,
no more promise of a crack.

The fridge hums empty,
a phantom’s warning to the heart,
I’ve learned the shape of nothing,
how hunger rips apart.
The belt, once loose and gentle,
now snarls in my ribs’ tight grasp,
and I count the holes as if they’re prayers,
or a future that might last.

But each turn of the dial
feels like turning back the clock, 
to days when bread was heavier,
and I didn’t need to beg the block.
I could live with the ache of time,
the wanting not to fall,
now I’d settle for the hunger
if it didn’t rise so tall.

So I pull it tighter,
another notch to bear,
until I forget the weight of it,
until the sting’s no longer there.
I’ve grown used to the silence,
the rationed air I breathe,
and the belt, the one that whispers,
“Eat, but never leave.”