My head has a sweet, sullen throb
My fever burns with a fervor
I’m a hot mess but not of the sexy kind
She tells me I’m still beautiful
She is squiggly lines that rhyme
I try to thank her
I babble
I’m helplessly wrapped up in blankets
I’m helpless
Help
Less
The words are now funny to me
As they recant their histories before my eyes
Why does my headache taste sweet
There is a bowl of chicken soup
And then it is morning
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