i drink till i puke, i puke till i am nothing: the anatomy of an emptying

MaryTheLamp

06 Sep 2026 • 2 min read

💡

Hello, stars. This poem is GRAPHIC and clinically surreal. Kindly proceed with perspicacity in the proportion of 2:1, that is, sanity is to brain cells. It contains imagery surrounding vomiting, suffering, addiction, and self-destructive behaviour. Reader discretion is advised; reader comprehension is optional. It also contains traces of the Sun, Antarctica, the Big Bang, and the Boomerang Nebula. None of them were way too happy about it. Potential side effects include existential indigestion, cosmic disorientation, and an unreasonable familiarity with the word desolation. If, upon reaching the end, you find yourself questioning your decision to proceed, kindly remember: I told you so.

i drink till i puke, i puke till i am nothing: the anatomy of an emptying

one fine hour,

a juncture in the sempiternal calendar of the universe -

i consumed 16 + technically 1 cups,

4 squared + technically 1 cups of desolation,

consecutively with the sole and whole objective of;

regurgitating it all out.

i like to vomit,

to get everything outside of me;

to provide pragmatic relief to my insides,

to dry the neural juice growing marcid within me.

i like certain flavours of suffering,

2 distinct and definite:

textures and temperatures of indubitable extremities -

it has to be either scalding, scalding not the normal degree;

but that, as such, the sun itself blooms in my throat

and the big bang plays table tennis with my melted vocal cords.

or else it should be freezing; icy not the normal degree;

but that, as such, the antarctica itself flourishes in my blood

and the boomerang nebula itself wears the coat of my cold.

i try to make meaning of life,

but that in itself is meaningless;

there's a curtain in the room of my mind,

i like to stay in the shadows where light is shallow-

and perforated with the marks of sorrowful hope.

this liquid is an addiction,

an inexorable elixir of destructive soothing.

it's not microscopic like alcohol

it's not my love like tea

nor is it my crush on coffee,

it's an amalgamation of contemporary illness;

an ancient inheritance of past dispositions

a cruel culmination of survival;

to befriend my eccentric emptiness...

i drink till i puke,

i puke till i am nothing -

letting the bitterness sweep;

wholly and divinely all the crookedly sweet dimensions of me;

all in the name of existential punishment;

my oath to this soulsick life of technically being a darkly darling 17.

I told you so.

Don’t freak out, okay? I think I am okay. No, I am definitely okay. My thoughts are simply very fluid and intersectional, and when you combine that with absurd imagination and a hue of dejected realism, well, the above is the output.

The rabbit falls into the never-ending abyss of whimsical sonder and perplexing kuebiko. It cultivates a palate for suffering and the anatomy of emptying oneself full, the lesson of how to become absolutely devoid and nothing.

I have nothing more to say, other than the fact that my sole and whole underlying and concerningly excessive consumption will always be the fluid called tea, and, at times, philosophical recoil. ☕️

Until then,

With disharmonious admiration,

XOXO,

MaryTheLamp 🧚‍♀️