I wake up at 3:37 and think I’m going to be sick
Keeled over on my bed, I push my face into my duvet
The same way I might press it into the knit of your sweater
My breath heaves hot and audible
The same way it might when you trace your finger over my shoulder blades
I keep one arm propped up, elbow bent sharply as saliva runs down two fingers, a pistol
I raise my head to push them into my mouth again, forcing a reflex that won’t come
My intestines twist and I cough, but I expel nothing
Tears roll down my cheeks from the effort
I cannot help feeling like I am trying to purge you
You are a straightjacket, a poison, a blanket, a comfort, my love
You are a parasite that I tend to, happy to make my body your home
But if I stop eating, I am scared you will consume me instead
My mother found a vase to put the flowers you gave me in
But I left them on the dining table
Still in the wrapping whose crinkle laughed along to your footsteps
I’ll watch them, adore them, while they wither
By Amalya Cleland
