the NINTH of MARCH, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY ONE.

i slip my fingers down my throat, dig around a little. i poke and rub and scratch, but nothing comes up.
it never does. only spittle and bile work their way past my lips. a holy ritual, it's not just the food;
it's the remnants of your heart i scraped out from under my fingernails, bloodied and rotten.
i put them in a little box, a bedside reminder to try and extract more of yourself from me,
purging and slicing and ripping. my little prayer box. sacrificial blood, sacrificial puke.
a pathetic offering of a lighter-lit ceremony, it reeks of iron and vomit and cigarette smoke. god is dead.

take me back!