A Thousand Fires.

I should be in bed, key word should. But I am not, here I sit, pouring over keys and a mind full of sentences eager in a sense to let others know how mindful I may or may not be.

Yesterday I could feel the sickness deep within my chest mocking me, I held my side and comforted it, sleeping in the fetus position, purely for comfort, knowing when the morning came, I wouldn’t be as I was when I stepped into the bed the night before. And I wasn’t.

Sheets sticking to pasty cold woman body is not, at least, in my mind the way one should have to peel themselves from their cotton cocoon of choice in the morning. You feel the hotness of your eyeballs under your eye lids radiating, but you convince yourself that if you close them tighter, for longer, the heat will dissipate and you will be able to open them and see the world as you should see it, not as how you know you will see it.

That part always makes me a little sad; sick crusties clinging desperately to now bent and woven dark eye lashes. They press the corners of your eyes into a flesh woven basket of blurry pain and discomfort.

Your breath is that of the ancients. You know, curdled; and you keep it secret for fear of your rejection from society, from your land, from home, from job, from life. It is the hot dragon sperm of death that fills your throat and clogs your half-hearted utterances. Burning away those intentions never wholly meant, and yet still scarring you the same.

It wins in the end, as my steps trail to hardly visible shuffles, it wins in every breath of mine you breathe; in the touch you take away, or the invisible carriers so hastily courting available flesh.

*cough*

*(writing when you’re burning a 100 degree fever and no sleep isn’t a good idea, because no one knows under what circumstances you’re writing, or for that matter, how. I had a kleenex twisted up my nose, and was hunting keys in the dark last night. I sometime forget what feeling sick really feels like.)