Ode To Vomit

Jasmine Ledesma

My mother is afraid 

of fat and break-ins. 

She thinks they are 

the same thing. 

I am ten and scared

of fire and vampires

in that order. 

My reflection greases

along car windows like

smears of blood. 

I steal my brother’s mirror

and spend decades

looking at the girl in there. 

She looks like a cloud, 

moody and formed. 

The first time I make myself

throw up my room is grey

with afternoon. My head

full of unfinished dopamine, 

I chase my first impulse and

crawl into my throat. 

Everything comes up like surprise.