Dry Heave

52 Poetry No lasting proof of my hurt means you can call me false

but you miss the point my sickness is a dance and my screams convulsions.

I’ve vomited misery fomenting the lust of a mob—the macabre— in my gaping maw as you still miss the point I love my fate.

I’ve clutched retching pain like a friend keeps close, always willing to meet me and teach me unfelt truths.

I’ve spent hours stood bleeding pressing feet on thorns, barbed wire and broken glass through skin harder into bone inducing not cries but pained spasms,

yes, they are useful allies when nothing beckons with wide, friendly arms.