“I’m not being bitchy, just being honest”
Those were the last words you texted me,
the same words that occupy my thoughts
as I lay on the bare bathroom floor.
All my fantasies and emotions fill
the toilet bowl, my therapist now a days.
At first I would gag and throw up
when I would think about you,
recall about our in depth conversations.
I miss you, and our friendshi…
excuse me, friendship.
I’ve become better,
Now I control when I vomit.
Every time I miss you I just take my two fingers
and jam them down my throat so that I can stop
I focus on the sensation, and welcome the distraction
hoping to free myself from the feelings inside me.
The worst thing you can do to someone like me
is ignore them, and worse, call them a bad friend.
As I think about how it’s possible for you to eradicate something
so meaningful as our relationship, so easily,
I reach for the toilet.
Thought I was getting better at control.
It was you, in our last meal that suggested
that I’ve become a writer. You’ve probably forgot
ever mentioning it.
I wish to share with you my words.
I need you… to read this. To listen.
I want to finally be worthy of your time.
I may never get the understanding and closure
I crave. I vomit out of dejection, not disgust.
I vomit to distract myself,
and then I flush.