Erysichthon

When you're hungry for long enough, nothing is
Inedible. Hunger is a teacher, of a sort,

Schooling you in gluttony until you're advanced enough
To eat leaves and dirt and branches and boot leather

And the line between can't and shouldn't disappears
And becomes, "How wide does my mouth stretch?"

Hunger, honed over years of intense sensation, is a superpower.
Let it grow and, eventually, you will have a mouth that feels so big

You're afraid to trip and fall with it open because,
If you do, you might slip and consume the world.

And what if you do? Would you feel full then?
With all that's known squirming inside your bloated belly,

Are you satisfied now? Probably not. Hunger that intends to stay
Has a tendency to make room for all it consumes,

Snake-like, never-ending, billowing and blooming in its nothingness
Until you have made a whole world of darkness inside yourself.

And where do you go from there, hero? What now,
Now that the only thing left to suck inside your swollen gullet is air?

Will you create a new world? Break off a piece of your Hunger
And mold it into a buffet as infinite as it is?

Will it look around at the nothingness it has created
And shrivel up and die, retiring triumphantly into the void?

Or, will Hunger whisper malevolently into your ear,
"There is one thing you still haven't eaten yet."

Pulling your fleshy hands from your face,
Fingers seasoned and shining with your own salt tears,
The answer becomes clear:

The only way to get rid of Hunger
Is for you to consume yourself.