But Once, Years Ago

You are the taste of vomit
on the back of my tongue;

the peculiar sour sting
I must gag upon

as I go through life,
choked to be constantly reminded

that I am all of nauseousness,
that I make you sick,

that I disgust you.
You told me this but once,

years ago,
but I have never since

been able to spit it up
or swallow it down.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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