Spit or swallow?

The retching subsides
and I foolishly decide that if only
I ignore the itching inside my chest,
focus instead on my aching ribs,
I can out-stare the impulse
to start up again.

Hello, I'm here.
You're not my friend, I'll not weaken again.
Hello, I'm still here.
Not for long, if I ignore you you'll disappear.
Not me, my friend, I can keep this up all night.
Expect I will.

Maybe just one mechanical
push then to clear my throat
and massage the urge aside,
but how could I have ever
imagined it stopping there?
Rhythm established, I fall on it
hacking at that itch
with all weapons, attacking
with axes, picks,
pound it with rocks
and sticks, in quickened
convulsions, reddened
and upright until the inevitable
happens, expectoration, the bliss of release.
I lie at ease for a moment, unwilling
to disturb this peace, but my
tight lipped mouth is filled
with sputum.

(c) 2013 Slush Poet