sleep deprivation makes me nauseous;
i can’t stomach the words
you owe the hours that night.
it’s feeding time,
but i’d rather play with my feedbowl;

i grip it tight,
more to keep my mouth shut
than make my time worthwhile
indenting my opinion
on a hard surface,
or risk being force fed.
yet i swallow whole
the chunks of my soul
you feed to me –

you are my medicine,
but i can’t stomach it.

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