Expel, expel, expel?

There's something there. Still and soggy, sitting in my chest like dead insects in a pool of water. There are hundreds. Floating, drifting, spinning in slow motion, circling without moving, lazing along towards the delusion of destination, hundreds and hundreds maybe thousands of breathless bugs, lingering silently between esophagus and ego.

There is something in my chest. There is something in my head. There is something. Something I cannot explain but want to. Something I cannot expel but want to. Something I cannot show you and do not want to.

What I want is no more than an answer to this question: how can something that weighs so little be so heavy? What I want is no more than to ease my hand down my throat and gather these inexplicable somethings from amidst my bodily fluids and acids and half-day old tequila and sesame sticks and expired orange juice that I drank anyway. 

Dead bugs. Maybe thousands, but you cannot see them. You cannot see me as I see myself, opening my mouth wide, as if to yawn, and projectile puking them out in rivers, rivers of dead insects with wings that do not function because they are wet, and anyway, wings cannot work without a living apparatus, and all these bugs are dead. 

There is movement without life; there is a waterfall of stillness. Uneasy currents of death, death in my chest, death in my tendons, death in my head, collecting in my crevices until I vomit.