Purging
A poem about the sweet, grey space your mind sits in when you have food poisoning
On the floor of my bathroom Thursday night perhaps, Friday morning I was under such a delirium caused by fever welcomed by the darkness of my hall as I tried to find porcelain that by the end of it I could only recognize my feet but everything they carried was no more than a skin sack of old fermented waste, waiting to be digested into something like Learned Experiences missing the target once? shame on me but twice, thrice? by then it was 3pm I had sweat through three jumpers two joggers and my sheets I’ve been chewing peppermint tossing back ginger shots, like ed sheeran on Christmas, ever since if you saw what my body expelled after months, some say years, of built-up bullshit harbored somewhere between my skin and that sticky under-layer, you’d venture a colonoscopy yourself when the taste of my stomach lining receded from my gums I was sore skinny and sorry bruised by bad meat a seasonal bug or most likely the churning of toxic waste my existence has required up until said purge now I’m free from the sick cycle carousel the wheeling wind of daily duties and since my tanks on E I can refill how I see fit.
Read On:
I like Hannah’s poetry, trice? Holly Cow hope you feel better beer cherry’s and pistachios sound like a good start ,