for my stomach


It’s what bakes you; breaks you into your cell fibers –

The constant rubble in the belly followed by the dirty exhale,

The slump and shame of one more night –

Light cut into the corners as you tear at the innards.


The spit in your eye that each morning brings –

It’s not that easy, not that cliché a start –

It’s not “I eat until I hate myself”;

I eat so I can hate myself more –


Pile on until the flow starts coming after meal,

The same reason I don’t brush my teeth enough,

And the toilet speaks to me, that fat lipped ghoul

That feeds the pit of the world –


The vile stew that I am half made of –

The boiling pit of my bowels that boil

In the brain that boils my bowels

And I find myself sitting and hating and waiting and wiping it all away.

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