last week, I woke up and my room was dripping in gold.
not gold like gold leaf/carats/sequins/grills
but like orange fire.
all the goldfish in the entire city had escaped
schlepped themselves over here to hang off the light
sticking to the carpet and the walls,
some of them swimming in the air and blowing bubbles
just to watch me sleep.
at first, it was weird
but now I can’t sleep without their thousand tiny eyes on me.
I haven’t thrown up since I was seven
Sliding queasily around an ice skating rink
Then arriving home to vomit out the apple
That my mother provided to quell my nausea
I remember the hot foul red mess in the bowl
And now, twenty-five, I am on my knees
Kowtowing to a faintly reeking pink toilet
Spitting out foam like a leaky tap
Wobbly all over, retching and heaving,
But there’s nothing coming out
And every twenty minutes, I walk in white-lipped
And walk out pink-lipped and shaking
All the lead up, no performance
I think I’ve forgotten how to lose control.