The Emetic

A little poem about bulimia.

The Emetic


I do not watch myself
from above, couldn’t possibly
imagine how my body
looks at these moments.

Muscles undulate with
the applied physics of push
and push and push
and it will move as

I moan the cry of the
cows that haunt me through
my bedroom window
at night, but sticky

fingers muffle my grunts
as nails grate me inside,
though nothing is within me.
My hand aches my jaw

until this body is
stimulated sufficiently and
it lifts and twists and
I heave my release.

My lips are acid swollen,
my eyes and nose
begin to leak onto what
is no longer a face

and I am as blurred
as drowned bread,
one touch and
I will disintegrate

but I breathe
this desecration because
here I am not human
and this is my natural.