ALTHENE JILANAH GONZAGA

Jealousy

The bitter taste of alcohol

laced with metal coating my tongue, thick and heavy;

the ungodly amalgam of poison and steel—and then, slowly,

there is a gurgling deep, deep, deep in my belly,

in its most hideous caverns,

making me squirm, making me squeamish.

And then, slowly, something rises:

from my belly button,

and up my chest,

between my breasts;

creeps up into my throat, its claws

wrapping around, tight and scathing.

There is a hotness that climbs up behind my esophagus

and crawls onto the back of my tongue—bile slowly seeping

and mingling with the biting booze and blood

and then, it stops.

For a while, there is air

coming into my ballooning lungs.

A deep and shaky breath, a tentative gulp—

and before saliva swallows down the throat, everything comes back up:

so suddenly, all at once like a sinner confessing in church, like milk spilling onto the floor,

like air rushing out of a punctured lung.

And it tastes salty as the sea’s stinging waters,

and sweet as something rotten,

and bitter.

So, so bitter.