I can feel you, chunky ocean, swelling inside my stomach.
This fucking sack won't burst. I know it won't. I'd like to slice you open and scoop out the stodgy cement like a video I saw on the internet of some pregnant shark a couple of days ago. But instead, I have to wait for you to arrive. Take your time, dear. This tirade of semi-dissolved cuisine battering of my oesophagus. Then you squeeze and wring yourself out. Ensue a waterfall of vomit. That bread I ate a few hours ago didn't digest properly. That's what hurt. It came out as whole as it went in. More whole, strangely. Except that one corner, fizzing way. Fizzing. I remember, "I'm so tired, I could puke." Those were the last words I spoke before I went to sleep, "I'm so tired, I could puke." and now, here I am, hunched over this porcelain bowl, looking at the former contents of my own stomach. I feel much better now, thank you.
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AuthorI write stories, but sometimes I write poetry about the slippery and crunchy moments in life. Archives
July 2023
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