I can't look home full in the face.

It spilled out of me in an angry current of washed out red. Was that blood? Oh dear God, was there blood in my vomit? I clutched the bowl of the toilet, hoping in vain that my body would forgive me. Merciless and vengeful, it made me sore with sickness. I craved the satisfaction of my bed's embrace but my decrypt state demanded my ardent vigil in the bathroom. The painful pressure of sour rejection scorched my throat again and caused tears to fork down my face. I was glad I wasn't home for this. I was glad I was alone to guiltily drape across the sink and sluice my mouth with tap water. I couldn't believe the pitiful broken woman staring in an unfocused stupor back at me. She looked desperate, tired, and hurt. I'm so glad my mother can't see me now...