Poetry
Sunday you consume
a massive dinner because
it’s the first real food you’ve faced since
Wednesday.
You puke up Sunday on Monday,
reflecting on your life a year ago
and realizing you belonged
to a culture that frets about
prom dates and spring musicals.
Tuesday you answer the phone to
“I’ve got a funny story:”
then she proceeds to recount
her not so ‘funny’
pregnancy scare.
Late Wednesday night
you pick at Chinese food
while watching Silence of the Lambs
which feels sickeningly
ironic.
So you’re exhausted in English
on Thursday when you turn around to see
Jeremy come in late
but it can’t be because
Jeremy hung himself
last Fall.
Slightly unhinged on Friday,
you remember your parents
nearly aborted you
to save you from being
a vegetable.
Come Saturday, you are,
a vegetable,
because it’s all you’ll eat
so you can face your
emaciated twin in the mirror
without puking.
And now you find yourself on Sunday
in the dark,
desperately praying
for your own exorcism.
Clutching your flashlight to your chest,
after watching the sun disappear
behind the hills of your
childhood.