Ectopic
I’m dry-heaving,
A thick damp flannel too high in my throat
to swallow. If I cough, you’ll come tumbling out,
blinking, slimy and silent
picking yourself up.
I wish I’d smashed your shell, aborted you;
Now you’re just a rising sear of panic,
a blister inflating.
My chest seethes with nothing.
I’m sick of swallowing you down
But that’s just it; I’m sick.
