Sour

Is the taste of my bile. I hug the porcelain bowl, body heavy, anchored to the tile. My throat burns and no honey here to hold my head up while my stomach churns. The fever won’t quit It’s lonely and painful. I pass out and I drown in my own vomit.    

Pain I Portray

If I was wished away Would you still think of today? Consider how I tried to smile and laugh. Look at the pain my eyes tried to convey. Nevermind. No need to save me. I will waste. I will decay. No tears. No heartache. Don’t even Pray.