Sneaking away from my bed with tip-toe steps
I feel my limbs move, by memory alone
And through the dark of the hall, I’m appauled,
At the instinct to feed, and bury by need
The tight, restless knots beneath confections.
I grab a wrapped donut and grip the plastic,
It crackles and echoes with the sound of shame.
The sound of a shovel digging a hole,
And my humming as it does so
As to distract my easily bruised ego
From the ghastly, gruesome guilt
That encompasses this masquerade.