You find yourself eating strange and dirty things.
Nasty things.
Not that you didn't before the Initiative got hold of you.
Got hold of you and cut you off.
So there's no joy in it now.
Only humiliation.
And the fear of getting caught.

Your body doesn't care.
So you dig through mounds of old potato peelings.
Until you find the fragile crunch of last morning's eggshells.
Fresh dug graves find you scooping up mouthfuls of clay and humus.
Cold and gritty on your tongue and hands.
Chalk, a whole delicious box stolen from a classroom,
Goes down like so many bland candy sticks.
To be followed by coffee grounds, used tea bags and grass.

Your own hair and nails are not exempt.
You gnaw and chew, yank and tug.
You stole a woman's purse, eating her lipstick,
After the strands trapped in her hairbrush.
Then your body let you count the money.
Your stomach hurt all day, but the rest of your body
Left you alone.

You find the town dump a treasure trove.
So much to grub in.
So much to force down.
Fish heads. Can labels.
Sticky rice.
String from baloney, long and red.
They caught you at it.
Lucky they thought you were looking for furniture.

Your body doesn't care.
It knows what it wants.
And it will get what it wants.
When you get the chip out of your head.
You'll feed and feed and feed and feed.
There will be no more humiliation, only satiation.
No more rats. No more eggshells. No more hair.
Only death and contentment.