My appetites are larger than the width of my mouth.
There’s no biting off more than I can chew, there will be no sinking of teeth.
I got no bite, I’ve given up.
I’m at the point of hunger going backwards
it curls back, it rolls back towards vomit.
Far too small to make a dent, mousey, lousy with craving
fed up with yearning, running amok, running on fumes, going unchecked, going unfed, fall through the cracks, slip through the gaps
between razor-sharp fangs
good as brand new,
sitting unused.
Anything would do, still
not a bite, not tonight.
Malas traducciones 