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these days, I conflate
nausea and nostalgia
they start and end
the same, after all,
and out of all things
I find it convenient,
as most things aren’t
so blatantly misleading
as those hunger pangs,
their respective forms
of abjection, of loss,
and emptiness that keep
me too reluctant to even
entertain the thought,
to even eat—

nauseous, nostalgic
and not sure which one
I was first;

they keep me too reliant
on an 80-proof vertigo
to prepare me for drift offs
worth their jet lags as I spend
the morning after at the kitchen
sink chugging water as if I’ll get
my money back