4 fingers

i’ve thrown up batteries.

the acid stains my throat

a bright green color.

the green that stings

your eyes, swollen.

i cry blood from the womb,

enough to fill a pothole.

and all the trauma

is trapped under my nails;

it makes me gag

when i cleanse it.

are these illusions real?

my mouth’s left agape

as pandora’s box breaks—

i was left stunned.

and the nauseating hum,

the whir of my teeth,

makes my skin peel further.

i am a friend of disassociation.

a fiend of focus.