Word Vomit

I can feel it.

Vomit.

It’s burning in the back of my throat.
It’s crawling up at my command.

I can see it.

Worthlessness.

It dribbles down my chin.
It eats away at the porcelain in front of me.

I never asked to be this way.
As if I like the burning of the acid, or the gagging from my own flexing fingers.
I hate it. Hate this. Hate me.

I am my own poison.

And I will drink every last drop.