spill my guts

if you told me to drink poison i wouldn't hesitate for the thought of death, id hesitate if it compacts into my compulsive list i create everyday, id ignore the dusty skull and cross bones and the word hazard written in bold letters across the glass and id turn the bottle to the side and read how many calories are in it. if i coughed up all the blood in my body would i feel better? the blood would splatter across the linoleum floor and soak into the cracks between the tiles, staying there permanently, a reminder of what giving into the officious notions would create. id stand up dispassionately, move on to the next place, somewhere with clean floors, and stuffy air, fluorescent lights that sting, half smiles and glossy eyes. id think highly of myself, i dont crave pity, i dont whine or think i need guidance. id say that to myself over and over, while i sit there and pick at the loose skin around on my fingers until it bleeds, until i can feel the warm blood coming back up my throat again, until i feel the irritable stares, until i dont feel clean.