Not all famines strike the belly. Some live beneath the ribcage, where marrow aches for what it’s never given.

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The Marrow’s Secret Hunger

by Shelly Moore Caron ©️ 2025

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Just beneath the surface

A battlefield lies awake.

Grief surges like black water,

My face becomes its lake.

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My bed’s a velvet coffin,

My stomach full, yet starved.

An ache beneath the ribcage

Demands to be unearthed.

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We cannot weigh another

By the mask we dare display;

Our truth sleeps in the shadows

Where no one’s eyes will stray.

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Our marrow aches with secrets,

My blood forgets its song.

A war within the sinew

Has raged for far too long.

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I burn for more than comfort,

For hands that recognize.

A famine of connection

Still claws behind my eyes.

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I hunger past the body,

For touch that makes me whole.

The quiet gnaws relentless,

A famine of the soul.

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