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.