One day you will be curled up.

Write a sad poem as if it is a handbook.

Endure the terrifying days out of the year where you will have violent torrents of a breakdown.

Your problems will no longer fit in your back pocket.

Keep writing.

Contemplate whether to explain everything or nothing.

You will choke on something, something hard, rising from your throat, as if it was reincarnating.

Shove it deep inside to someplace intangible.

Chant to yourself that you would rather eat than be eaten.

Think it’s some sort of immense power to clench everything inside.

But it’s not.

It’s the toxins you drink, the venom you stomach, the burn you swallow.

Garbage.

It’s the vicious chemicals lingering in a mist around your rib cage.

You eat and you eat and you eat until it is something you can not hold.

Now, you are ready to vomit.

Write something better.