Uh, my name's Kayla Stevenson.

I'm a poet from Colorado.

Eso This poem was titled Don't ask me about my gag reflex.

I know I'm depressed when I feel guilty for eating standing in a fridge.

Well, comparing meals two mirrors, the light illuminating my face.

But somehow it still feels dark in this kitchen.

I'm learning that I'm not lot away myself anymore, cause they start rounding up digits to the nearest decimal, comparing shock classes to calories to my chipped nail polish.

There's 13.5 calories in the single son ship, but there's nothing sonny about today.

I just start searching for hope with my fingertips, knowing only find dead girls inside, leaving a bathroom to tell a lie, explaining to my friends about the tears in my eyes, I was actually crying.

I was just trying to save room for something more than a sweaty body on top of me.

Sometimes I need to feel empty so I can finally breathe again from the back.

That's way less than heartburn and hearts way less on empty stomachs.

I want to soar away from stomach girls, but they keep me grounded and stagnant.

trying, crying, hunched over a bathroom sink, pretending like I'm not actually dying, Although collarbones have always been a good look on me.

So start plucking my soul from my rib cage with hip bones and tasting myself, I guess, and dissolving tea for dessert.

I just carried gum and my wallet.

I don't pant the sour taste on desperation onto unsuspecting companionship of our tricks to be taught.

You want to be good at this.

And some days I teach myself all of them on those days that I feel depressed.

Thank you.