Self Loathing

My actions serve me with empty compliments on a silver platter

I grab at them, hopeful for the density and meaning they will fill me with

But the words are deceivingly flaky and useless 

They fill me with air and air alone

The more I consume, the more I desire

But I don't care about much anymore

So I eat them up nonetheless

And shrug off the bitter aftertaste 

and the total comprehension and complete understanding that comes with it

and walk around wide-eyed and innocent

as if I don't know exactly what I'm doing.