Dietary Restrictions.

“I’m not hungry.”

I’m empty.

My stomach is singing the persistent drone of the gastric bagpipe. I wish it were full of anything but air.

I’m ravenous.

You are appearing more birdlike by the minute, a roasted turkey inviting me to gnaw on succulent bones.

I’m famished.

I would carve you up and shove you into my pie hole like some kind of craven cannibal given half a chance.

“Perhaps a salad.”