Retched Removal

In the basement rec room

where our bedrooms connect,

amidst 60s beaded curtains,

stained glass lamps,

macramé pillows, gathered

from yard sales, curbsides,

and our favorite-Mike’s mom,

we talk

late into the night,

frank discussions about

sexuality, racism, addiction,

abortion, religion and

spirituality, which we both agree

is a separate thing from religion.

We are both spiritual.

But I won’t let her

use her tarot cards on me,

not because

I don’t believe

they have power

but because

I’m quite certain they do.

She respects my confession that

despite my current lack of churchgoing

Jesus remains

in my life.

Still lives in my heart.

We challenge each other

share experiences

hopes and dreams

literally

we endlessly dissect our dreams

our minds connect and swing

open

both free

to lay everything bare.

Except

I can never quite bring myself

to come clean

about my food thing.

With eight people

two toilets

and no bathroom in our

underground space,

I rarely have

privacy for purging.

Start using

the blue plastic trashcan

in my bedroom to hold

night deposits.

Crystal is gone early each morning,

working her way up

at some fancy city office

toward a solid future,

while I sleep past noon

in a room with no windows,

a trace scent of vomit

and a life with few responsibilities,

aside from taking out

the disgusting trash.