i suppose some may say
blessed are those who die in the light
tiny beady eyes wide open
facing the heavens above
pick me! pick me!

they hark with their eager beaks
as slimy tendrils of starch slip down mine
pooling in a vat of acid in my belly
the scent of aged tomato sauce makes me flinch.

i will it to stay down
fighting against my own nature
as my stomach revolts
and burns my esophagus on the way up
returning the mass in thick chunks to where it began:
a black plastic dish, greasy with sedentary oils.

half-masticated and syrupy in bile
angel hair strands swim in the regurge
the soupy mess stares back at me
as if it knows its metallic taste still lingers on my taste buds

i want to disappear into the chair cushion
where his penetrating eyes can’t find me
but my hugeness screams
pick me! pick me!

and he harks through clenched teeth
waste! waste!
steering my emesis back toward my fixed lips
where upon my upper lip
sweat meets snot meets rancid smears
in a terrible medley

and tears slip out the corners of my eyes
and the stench of tomato makes me gag
but he pries my mouth apart with metal twines
flooding my senses with the acrid vile

and i think to myself
waste! waste!
find it unbearable to lift my arms up
with eyes wide open
to the heavens above
pick me. pick me.

Published in Edition 3 of The Dilettante.

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