Bulimic Valentine

I'm in the bathroom, sink and mirror
to my left, tub to my right,
tiled floor cold beneath my feet.
Dead ahead, she's in a red dress
slumped over the toilet, cradling it like a lover,
cheek resting on the sill—
a makeshift window.

I walk over, peer inside the bowl.
It's like a glimpse into her body,
the contents a parting gift.
"Happy Valentine's Day," I say to her pallid face.
She gradually pulls herself to her feet,
topsy-turvy and ill.

She shuffles over to the mirror,
runs a fine-toothed comb through
her thin hair, scrubs the vomit from her teeth
with an overused toothbrush,
applies a rouge shade of lipstick
that makes her look cheap,
and then smacks her lips at her own reflection.

Her eyes find mine. I almost expect her to
smirk but all she does is stare
until I have no choice but to look away.
"At least I have a boyfriend," I hear her hiss,
her words laced with venom.
Then she struts out, leaving me alone
with the puke-filled toilet.

Yeah, I think, she has a boyfriend.
She'll make him a lovely corpse someday.