Yesterday’s Shit

By: Isabelle Morgan

God, it’s heavy. All lodged in my intestine. Packing tighter and tighter, fermenting,

 emanating as disappointing puffs of what I can only assume is comprehensive to decomposing, diffusing, death. The smell of ass. Another pound to what’s weighing these days. 

God, it’s early. Skin tense and goose-bumped against the chilled morning porcelain. Squinting back into consciousness as swollen sleep compresses my eyes, yet no movement, gas is all that passes my naked, shivering cheeks.

Morning keeps going, time continues with the sun, and not my constipation. So, I spoon more food in, chew, and swallow, adding to the piled-up indigestion, because conveniently, the fuel has already been pulled from that blocked condensing excretion. Dress in loose and forgiving baggy drapes that rest just below my bulged waist. 

It won’t be convenient, but at some point in the day, an urge will weaken my knees, take control of my spirit, and provide such a release that shock vibrates all the way up to tip over the tear teasing the edge of my left eyelid. Then, yesterday will spin, I swear it must get dizzy partnering paper in that weird water dance, and suddenly, it will be gone. But satisfaction gets interrupted by a sigh, 

I’ll have to deal with today’s shit tomorrow.