I keep eating things—handfuls of pebbles and dirt and birdsongs. I’m walking over gravel and rocks and sticks. Leaves. I keep eating and walkingwalkingwalking upupup—until it all comes back. It all comes out. I think so anyway. It doesn’t matter. I turn around and start beatbeatbeating to wherever I came from.
Along the way I eat a rotten apple. Soon my body feels like an overstuffed bag of dirt. I go behind a tree and push 2 fingers into my mouth, and slide them into the constricted part of my throat. I shove and shove and and poke and slide. I keep raping my face with my fingers and I feel wildflowers, pebbles, leaves —slime up my fingers.
I look at the pile of dirty puke. I stare at the Mc Donalds french fries and Big Macs and chocolate shakes. I’m outside of my body. I am tiny, swimming in the mucus, in my mess.
It’s just there. It’s all there in the ocean-sized puddle with my life drowning in the gross fucking mess. This is my ocean at the end of my slimy lane.