THE SWARM

By Jenna Malin

the voices in my head have nothing to eat,

so, they feast on my insecurities.

they are not picky eaters;

they’ll eat whichever one they

sink their sharpened teeth into first.

such insatiable thirst.

they could swallow each thought in one gulp,

but they would rather savor the pungent flavor

of my self-inflicted wounds.

they lick their lips, their fingertips,

savoring every last drop of crimson

trickling down their chin.

indulgent, greedy, always

needing more—like you.

luckily for them, there’s plenty to go around.

they could come back for seconds, thirds,

fourths, and there’d be plenty of

vulnerabilities leftover.

scores and scores.

the voices in my head have nothing to eat.

they are rabid with hunger, salivating.

they are ravenous like wolves.

and, with teeth like thorns,

they swarm.

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