ABCs of Moments and Places I Threw Up Because I Didn’t Know I Was Allergic to Alcohol
by Amara Tiebout
An acerbic alchemy of PBR and hormones
bubble up inside my mouth,
crammed in a theater showing My Bloody Valentine.
Drizzled spit and splatter campfire, bad decisions
eat mushrooms on four-wheelers in teenaged
fields watered with Natty Boh.
Grease-lined kitchen tiles at my boyfriend’s
house, after slamming a shot of Jack Daniels,
Icarus-high from the cheers of coyote friends.
Jell-O shots sticky with college and sweat.
Knocked knees over a bedroom trashcan, while a
long tall glass of a man drank between my legs.
Moments of gag-hurl felt normal. They matured even, grew classy.
Nausea tracked me to hotel bathrooms scented white, so I puked
odes into linen napkins at the wine bar, with notes of burnt match,
Pine-Sol, and sour breath. Laments to lush lesbian clubs in Hollywood
Quiet "I’m sorry" stained by my girlfriend’s loud eye rolls.
Rome with a crow of coworkers and sprays of limoncello.
Scotland over smoky whiskey and a well-aged bartender.
Trash chute of a luxury condo on our first date.
Uneasy and embarrassed, bile bitters curdled tongue and voice.
[That wasn’t the last time] until it was.
Vomiting had become language. A daily ritual. Practiced.
Wasted apologies on everyone but my body, heaved dry as a whisper.
X-ray my abdomen to inventory the damage. Booze still robs my family,
yokes sister and mother to a tombstone. I’ve seen them throw up exactly
zero times. But we don’t answer their calls after 8 pm.
About the Author
Amara Tiebout is a queer writer and editor hailing from Washington DC. She edits medical research during the day and scribbles poetry and fantasy novels in her spare time. She believes with her whole 160 lbs in social justice reform, sex positivity, healthcare and reproductive rights for all genders and bodies, and a good latte. Her work has been published by Gnashing Teeth and Lighthouse Weekly and nominated for Best of the Net 2022.
