Projectile: A Poem by Madeleine Heyworth

Projectile

Tomorrow I will drive myself back to the place where we had our first kiss.
The fading sunlight was delicious that day—like butter, like wine—I remember
the cars lined up in their neat little rows, headlights crouching in the dusk,
waiting to be turned on. I will stand there alone and take a deep breath and then
I will vomit everywhere, really spew my guts all over the tarmac; families will stare
as I choke on the bits of food that get stuck in my throat on the way back up, clutch
the wing mirror with my free hand and yank my own hair back with the other
but there’ll still be strands that fall down and catch the sick as it comes hurtling out,
then someone will ask are you alright? and I will yell fuck off
and my stomach will continue convulsing long after the last of the bile has left the building.
Understand this: I would rather lie here reliving the taste of publicly chucked-up soup
than close my eyes and feel the brush of your thumb on my rib, your tongue
searching the skin on my top lip, our breathless laughter, your eyes stained by desire,
bashfully drinking me, grinning, touching, headlights, butter, wine, dusk,
it’s spring again, it’s spring, can you believe it, look—I’ve had enough.
Today and every day since you quit me I have woken up thinking of you,
your kiss vibrating through my body like a retch, like my favourite meal
breaking its promise by reaching up to touch my lips again.