Ode To Vomit
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.