The toilet bowl sits there,
mocking me,
just like it has been for the past few minutes.
Do it.
You have to do it.

I position myself,
And try to relax my heaving chest.
One, two…
I can’t get to three.
No, do it.
You have to do it.

My index finger slides to the back of my throat
And within seconds I’m leaning over.
My stomach aches-my throat burns
Tears stream down my face
Do it.
You have to do it.

The toilet bowl almost won with its cogent words.
Do it, it said.
But then I looked at myself in the mirror.
Who was that?
That’s not me-I’m not pale.
Nor am I sickly
Or tired

I wash my face and hands
And leave the porcelain devil behind closed doors.
Do it.
No.
I don’t have to do it.