matin en classe d’anglais

early morning nausea twists my stomach;
i am wracked by bile clawing its way
up the raw ladder of my esophagus
like becky sharp in the 1880s.

i hear whispers–
they finger my earlobe so sensual
and slice the skin with shining keratin-moons
and the rustle of clothing– in broad daylight,
how dare you– burns my skin
in vicarious shame.

i fold and flicker in silence.
i am curling paper, gray-lined
and ignited by this sickness,
burning slowly into shadows;

i pray to be swept away quickly,
as if i were never here.

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