Nausea

all of the detours,
and the airplanes,
and the underwater mumbles,
getting lost in Chicago
where street names turn to
sketchy numbers.
dark rain,
and the drunk running,
fake laughing at the
unfunny,
the jammed umbrellas,
the wet feet,
still a stranger to strangers
I have yet to meet.
puking in malokas,
twirling in Sacromonte caves,
spinning and spinning
in drunk men’s arms
in Spain,
where they search for American girls
while they fight,
flight,
and fawn,
to devour and escort
out to tired
streets
at dawn.
from cloud
to ground
the past descending,
as if it were the second coming.
the spinning and spinning,
the flying over seas,
the speeding ferry,
the naivety.
the nausea,
the honesty,
the heart on my sleeve,
the heads tilted over stained toilet seats.
And now I sink
into exhales
in the foams of a bath,
with scrapes—
no longer gasping
gapes—
in the pruned aftermath.
the past buzzes like a
concert recently departed,
of potentials aborted
before even started.
naked in warm water,
nose plugged
as I fall,
the sound of speakers
now muffled
behind the
wall

© Stephanie Khio 2024. Written between 2014-2024