Sitting with my head against the cold porcelain I can feel each rush of blood. The warm sensations of life have been replaced with a clammy, cold, chaos that leaves me weak. I try to pry my face up but my insides churn. I can feel my abdominals contract; my chest pressing tightly on itself. With extreme discomfort my body twist with what felt like a balloon escaping my inner cavities. A roar of warm foam expels from my body. Binding me, yet again, to the ground. Leaving me weak and heaving. All I wish is to be done, to not want this feeling, to not feel yet again. But the process continues. My eroded throat cries out with discomfort but no sounds other than heaving are produced. The company of tall unsanitary stall walls, slightly stained fake tiling, and a perspiring toilet from extreme humidity are all wonderful guests in this early morning splendor. No sickness of body could be this bad. The mind wishes to suffer, and the loathing of its mistakes brings forth another heave, another eruption, another binding force to this disgusting place. A place where people placed their behinds to defecate the most foulest of things. A place where men have sat and stroked their unloved souls out. A place where no love has existed. Here is where I place my head. Here is where I call out to a God who I have bantered great battles with. Here is where I profess my love of the world yet simultaneously casting out all that it offers. My skin coils. My back buckles. My muscles scream as their defilement has been caused only by sheer loneliness. It comes again. This time dry. The rough pressure of air filled with acid. The intoxicating suffering of nothingness. The want for an end. The want for something. Anything. Even a different suffering would do. Physical pain being the one on the surface but the cracking of a splintering soul into all oblivion is the only thing felt. This untraceable feeling of abandonment. This unknown want for isolation. This despicable self-loathing that brews a stew of utter despair. All this because of one conversation, or be that lack of a conversation. A face glued to a toilet seat because that someone never cared. A stomach inverting itself into a pool of untreated sewage water because love is a word and nothing more. A boy crying dry tears at 3 am because every fiber that exists in him leads to be that of something he never wanted. Something he never wished to be. Some say they have a heavy heart, but I believe I have no heart at all.