sicklesigns

That morning I vomited.
I vomited the coffee I had just drunk
I vomited bile coated in cigarettes
smoke. That morning I bled, heavily
from my young wilting uterus.

That morning- when I bathed, I
searched for answers in the bottom
of the sewer stenched bath.

I studied myself, the way my body
contorts and changes. I studied my embrace
of the constant and forgiving form of the water as it
joined the tears melting down my face. I made
Empty promises to myself as I touched
each tile on the bathroom
wall with my eyes.

I thought- This is too good to miss-
I lied.

That morning, when I vomited I was shaking,
Shaken violently by a dream i had
about adequacy, failure, and intent.

When I bled that morning it
felt good. To watch the thick blood stream down my thigh,
highlighted by the hollow (halogen) buzz of ceramic encased by grout-
to taste and hurt made it real.

Like locusts after a century of famine,
that afternoon, the cramps came
to me

uninvited. With force,
they groped and clawed-
crawled into every oraface of my open body
and ravaged me.