Pregnant.

The urgent need to hurl overwhelmingly hits me,
From the deep abyss that is my stomach,
A stifled whimper...spit swallowed to keep the inevitable at bay,
No mean fete, futile all the same.
A drop of the vile fluid escapes its confines,
Seemingly to scout the area soon to be visited by its brethren,
Does it miss them? I spit.

Then...all is calm.