Mouthful

 

Let forth the vicious dry-heaving,

blood boiling up from the pit of your stomach

and retch violently until nothing is left of you

and you lay, a husk of what you were,

sick and empty on the floor.

 

It would feel so good to let it all out,

allow it to issue forth, coat the ground below,

seep into the soil and stain something else for a while.

 

But you’ll keep locking it inside,

for propriety says that you should.

And it’ll stay locked in your mouth

until you allow it to come out.

Which you won’t.

 

Isn’t that what this is for?

Though it pains you, hurts you,

ignores and hurls dagger-eyes,

you’d rather keep it inside semi-forgotten

than let it out in vomitous confrontation.

 

Scraping at the roof of your mouth

a wet spattering clawing

sitting under your nose and

attempting to smother you

with each inhalation.

 

Is this malady merely physical?

Or would a probing of the mind

make this feeling go away?

 

No amount of medicine

would rid you of this.

Only time.