self as red wine sponge

woke up too early this morning and the whole thing resulted in me heaving over my porcelain sink, my white and square shaped sink. And the smell of my soap which i usually like and strategically placed at each corner - made it a little worse. Poison! My legs and neck took a momentary fever, and I groaned loudly against my will. humiliating. but no one else heard, so it's fine. because why be up at five unless you're fighting evil with good? good, cool water from the small glass mason jar i keep in my medicine cabinet. my square shaped medicine cabinet with the fake gold trim and the magnets in the corners that pull a day neatly shut before bed. i'm writing this in a coffee shop and everyone's words are blending like alphabet soup with letters floating in so many rotations that you can't spell words, and then your only real option is to shovel, spoon to mouth. Your stomach gets the message. Is this how i'd explain it to a deaf person? Maybe someday a deaf person will ask me, what is it like, the sound of sitting in a coffee shop? Would they like to know that? Or maybe i'm completely wrong about that - the interest might not be there. maybe she or he will be content to listen to me talk with my eyes. My washing machine spin cycle eyes, turning thoughts with a powerful agitator at their core, shaking monotonously like something you'd watch only if you didn't have a television. The people around me will never stop having televisions, leaving only myself to stare longingly into these eyes in my mirror, rising from heaving over my porcelain sink, my white and square shaped sink, slowly diluting the toxic within.