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.