Sick

The sun surfaces above the horizon

as a molten marshmallow.

I lie in bed

sick.

Sheets and blanket thrown aside.

Shivering—cold sweats.

My nose runs

like a glass firefly

secreting melted copper.

Restless,

I roll over

kicking my legs.

My body:

a strawberry patch

connect the dots.

In the fetal position I lie

for a split second

then vomit.

I must get well.

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