I am going to write a poem.
In this poem, I will vomit up my insides in a spew of blood and bile and froth. Metaphors will choke my throat and I will strangle on similes sour as choler, thick as phlegm.
In this poem, I will wander hallways dead as dreams and kneel and heave my yellow guts at your feet. My muscles will contract and convulse, spitting bitter truth, acrid and strange.
In this poem, I will be opened up, emptied out, left spent and aching and raw. And there will be a hollow place and relief like porcelain, firm and cold and clean.
