No Account for Bad Taste (stream of consciousness writing 12)

There is no thought of you now
Save for this:
A rock that I have rounded out
With the core of my mouth
My saliva, for years, scrubbing
It down into a dark marble
That broke my teeth apart
When I forgot what it was
And tried to eat it
This is what we do
When we grow accustomed
To things we shouldn't
Ever have tasted
And now I spit you
Out onto the grass
Because all I can taste
Is my own blood now