If only I could puke me out.

When I was done carving out my insides

I’d watch the ugly colorless excrement squirm on the floor.

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No need to kill it.

It’ll just die starving, waiting for nourishment like a newborn

– reaching out for hands.

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We’re all put off by our own vomit,

so I turn my back on it

because I’m clean now. I am.

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But wait,

a familiar acidic sting touches the back of my throat

– runs its fingers down my tongue.

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When I turn around the waste is standing behind me.

“Is something wrong?” it asks

– a foul smile forming on its face.

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And before I can answer I’m puking again.

My blood vessels burst all at once like a firecracker

And the lights go out for me too.