I cough
It is wrenching my insides
My innards
Are surely shriveling up
Or blowing up
I can't tell.
I'm too busy cooling my skyrocketing fever
On the brink
Of delirium
Or am I already there? Hard to say.
I am swimming in my own sweat
But
sh-
sh-
shivering.
More blankets.
I sneeze.
My nose is surely
In flames.
Or in a bucket of ice. Hard to say, really.
Tissues, more tissues. Those four boxes
are surely not enough.
More soup. No, not that kind.
The one with the letters in it.
More pillows. No, not those.
The ones with the feathers.
More books. No, not those either.
The ones with the soft bindings.
I sweat. Fewer blankets, please.
Too hot. WAIT –
More blankets … And bring the heater
with you. Too cold.
Oh dear, this must be it.
The end, it must be near. Surely.
Can I sleep? Can I leave it behind?
Good-bye, good-bye to all.
What? What is that, you say?
I am not departing this earth and this body
once and for all?
What?
It's just the flu?
Oh.
It's just the flu.