fever crawls under my skin, making me prickly & tender. the pressure in my head threatens to burst me like a grape; standing in the supermarket, too close to the refrigerated aisles, the world bends & swims. gravity presses against me like we’re huddling for warmth. have i ever appreciated the effort of standing, the accomplishment of walking upright? home, layered under borrowed winter coats, sleep is a dark, warm crevice in the earth. it swallows up my fever dreams & i lay in the blackness, melting, thawing.


2 thoughts on “Sick

  1. So sorry to hear you’re sick, Priscilla. If nothing else, I have to say your craft is incredible while feeling that awful. You’re such a tremendous writer.

    Feel better soon!

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