Bulimic

My stomach turns violently,
Aching.
The stench of it still makes me gag
As it creeps up my nostrils,
Stinging.
I cough, splattering the wall
With tiny crimson droplets.
I see them glittering
Beyond my blurred vision.

The fresh rips in my abused throat
Burn from the stomach acid.
My mouth tastes of rust and salt,
of emptiness…
But I can not stop yet.
There’s still a chance
I’ve kept something down.

My tortured eyes stream,
Salty tears crawl down my face
Like raindrops on a windowpane…
And upon reaching my jaw line,
Drop,
Slip down the drain,
Following the swirl of mucus, blood and bile.