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.”