My stomach tears, flares red,
It blares profanities in agony,
Mercy! God? Jesus? Mercy?
Nested in organs which chafe and squeeze and burn,
Like some patriotic army they fight, not for me,
But only because they can't retreat.
Tiny brittle bits of meat and gristle,
Spit out in dribbles of water.
The green of the unwell, they say.
The old stench of the foul stray, they say.

“Get out!” I beg, the Judas stare,
Unpleasant glands, I puke rancid air,
And I grow hairs in pain, my stomach screams again,
And we answer by screaming together,
No pleasure, no, more, just pressure,
My precious pores call to my body and my body tingles cold,
And all sound turns hollow, sight follows, then stops, my throat narrows.
And my ears block.
And my breathing burroughs down to echo like whispers,

And would you believe it?
It reminds me of her.
I am dying.
But I am still thinking of her.