Thursday, June 20, 2013

Strike up the Wurlitzer

Sick again. Who knows with what. Up all night, mercury spinning in my veins; my body as the rising and falling of a thermostat, at the whim of unseen wind. Impossible to get comfortable, impossible to sleep, sweating and chills, tossing and turning, everything more liquid than solid. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

The room reeks of dank somatic complaint.

I'm heading into what might have been a nice 4-day weekend. The woman who takes care of Rhys in the daytime needed Friday and Monday off so I took them off also, to take care of the boy. Now I question it. Parenting is a particular burden when ill. 

Nausea, Coffee, Repeat. 

My stomach is empty, as dizzy as the carnival, lonely as a carousel, dragged through the night behind certain circular horses.