"bulimia"

like an upturned jar of butterflies
my stomach would capsize
and you'd slip, cascading
your way through my
c r o o k e d t e e t h
wearing the spaces
like toxic sheathes.
sometimes you'd
come back every week,
with your meek little fingers
and lies I believed—
I was gagging on vowels;
you were lacing the towels
on my bathroom floor.
when my throat would dry
you'd run and hide but
on the backs of my
c r o o k e d t e e t h
I could taste you