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That is the only word to describe how I feel.
I’m like a snake who ate a rat, which I forgot to let die first.
And you, the rat, are now clawing my insides apart with your freshly sharpened claws.
I just wish I could throw you up,
But I can’t let go that easily.
When my father, the other snake, got a whiff of a tastier rat in the neighborhood,
He threw up my mother like salmonella, and never even looked back to see the mess he had created.
There are still throw-up stains all over the house,
My favorite is the big brown one in the living room that looks like Mickey Mouse.
Although I am like my snake father in many ways, his ease of vomiting isn’t one of them.
Even your blue Crayola toothbrush down my throat, penetrating my larynx like your lies to my ringing ears doesn’t cut it.
I cannot throw you up.
You will forever sit in me like my late grandmother in her coffin,
Weighing me down and taking up space.
I will forever be