You are the taste of vomit
on the back of my tongue;
the peculiar sour sting
I must gag upon
as I go through life,
choked to be constantly reminded
that I am all of nauseousness,
that I make you sick,
that I disgust you.
You told me this but once,
years ago,
but I have never since
been able to spit it up
or swallow it down.
The Old Jones 