I was No-Face.

  Mouth open,

  hands grabbing,

  swallowing everything in reach

  as if the hollow inside me

  had teeth.

  Sweet things.

  Soft things.

  Things that disappear

  the moment they touch my tongue.

  I kept eating

  and growing

  and growing—

  bigger with shame,

  round with secrecy.

  No one saw.

  Until someone did.

  She called my name

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  and I turned—

  and in that turning

  was the worst part.

  Not the eating.

  The being seen.

  The mask slipped.

  The hunger showed.

  The tears ran down

  a body swollen with things

  that never meant anything.

  I wasn’t greedy.

  I was empty.

  I wasn’t disgusting.

  I was trying

  to fill something

  that doesn’t understand

  diets.

  In waking life

  I call it keto.

  Control.

  Discipline.

  But in the quiet hours

  I buy sweets

  like apologies.

  I eat my feelings

  so they don’t have to speak.

  I join plans

  so I don’t lose belonging.

  I swallow guilt

  after every bite.

  And when I imagine

  someone looking at me

  mid-indulgence—

  I don’t fear the food.

  I fear the disappointment.

  But No-Face only grew monstrous

  because he tried

  to become

  what others wanted.

  When he left the noise,

  when he stopped consuming

  what wasn’t his—

  he became small again.

  Still.

  Quiet.

  Maybe my hunger

  isn’t about carbs.

  Maybe it’s about being afraid

  I won’t be fed

  if I don’t comply.

  Maybe I am not grotesque.

  Maybe I am just

  hungry

  for safety.