Bulimic Binge.

None saw your exodus
From the psychiatric ward 
In your short pink
Flowered nightgown;

Or saw you going down
In the elevator
To the ground floor
To procure six bars of chocolate

With the money you had liberated
From Nurse Cowlaw’s purse;
Or saw you lock yourself
In one of the soiled cubicles

Of a woman’s john,
And sitting there,
Scoff the six bars of chocs,
Ravenously and quickly,

Like some famished wolf;
Or later heard you puke,
After you had stuffed
Two fingers down

Your tender throat
To bring the warm mixture
Up in acid throws
Against the stained white bowl,

With the far off sound of voices
Calling your name
That slowly sifted
Into your ears

As the last mouthful
Of sickly sins,
Burning your throat,
Upward came.