I stood to stare at my reflection in the mirror
but even she was not there;
run away to another place,
to a banquet that would curl itself in the hollow of my stomach,
she left me alone with wobbly knees and the disinfecting smell of bleach.
I sat to wipe away the fuzzy darkness
that had wrapped itself around me;
I fell, crawling across the carpet
to give up the dry bread I had slowly eaten. Hollow stomach.
The warmth made night return, I fainted into the disinfecting smell of bleach.
-I guess this is what happens we you are sick. When you finally have enough energy to type you write a poem about losing your dinner and lunch. Wonderful, right? Well, thanks for reading, I really did try not to make this a gross sick poem.
” Me and the pen, we are one. If its ink would cease to flow,my ink would cease to flow.”