Doxycycline by Rob Colgate

When they cleared out my gut
I couldn’t do anything.

I was staring at the ceiling blowing 
kisses. The ceiling ran away.

My arms fell off in a very sexy way.
It doesn’t matter. My legs 

are the only part of me
that I want to survive. Maybe

that wasn’t direct enough. I am dying 
very soon. Even looking like a model. 

I said, I will enter the sun.
The sun said, sorry not my type.

I shaved my head and literally 
no one said anything.

I thought the song “Lover’s Spit” was called
 “Lover’s Piss.” Every coffee shop hates me.

Yesterday I answered an email while vomiting.
Everyone thinks I’m really fun.

My co-workers at the gym asked to hang out
but I was covered in my own piss.

Well, this isn’t going well. I’ve watched 
an episode of a television program

if that gives any indication 
of how poorly I’m doing.

I used to listen to music
but now I oversleep.

It’s just how I feel. 
There are no rules about this.

I heated a tortilla for dinner. I’m in my prime.
My skin slipped off and ran away.

Rob Colgate is a poet from Evanston, IL. He holds a degree in psychology from Yale University and previously spent time at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. He is currently pursuing his MFA in poetry with the New Writers Project at UT Austin, where he serves as the nonfiction editor for Bat City Review and working towards a certificate in critical disability studies. His work is forthcoming in Best New Poets 2020; his first chapbook, So Dark the Gap, was published by Tammy in March 2020. You can find him at

Vagabond City Literary Journal

Founded in 2013, we are a literary journal dedicated to publishing outsider literature. We publish art, prose, reviews, and interviews from marginalized creators.