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Memories of morning,

Cold glass and sadistic tile,

I think I still have bruises on my knees.

A fire in my throat,

As the content exorcises from me.

Traces of it cling in my hair,

Smelling of old gutters and that porcelain nightmare.

Skin purpled like plucked chicken flesh,

I wriggle back under my sheets,

Too cold without a sheet,

Too hot for covers,

And too weak to lift them anyway.

Breaths irregular,

Feet sweating,

Arms chilling,

Head burning,

Toes freezing.

I hated seeing that morning light

Peeking over at me from the horizon.

Taunting, teasing, slowly creeping into me.

I throw myself back to the floor,

Back to that endless pit that engulfs my insides.

Cold and hot all over my body,

This is happiness?

Eating is getting so pointless,

I can’t even last long enough to digest it

Before I’m back on my knees.

I rubbed my empty but full stomach

And smile.

This is happiness.

Then,

I watched the blood, the clots, the memories,

Flush down the toilet.

Cramps bombard me like grenades in my gut,

Painful, washing my insides clean.

I fall to my knees,

This time it’s not vomit,

But tears that fall from my face.

It was happiness,

And now it’s just a memory of morning.