No, not to fill, just to deaden the sensation - and I despise myself for that.

And so I am glad that it never works, that this yearning cannot be extinguished by food or any other thing of the world.

But still, through force of habit perhaps, I push into my mouth, hastily dropping crumbs on my front, unconcerned, lumps of this and that, that and this, filling my belly, ruining my soul.

And I wish I hurt enough I could cry, and I wish I loved enough to forget myself. I wish I would seek to empty myself instead of fill myself. Instead of running to the transient world for false consolation.

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Κύριε ἐλέησον

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I'm sorry

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Most people would rather be certain they're miserable, than risk being happy.