it’s a weird thing, being sick for so long.
the kind of sick that doesn’t
go away, only wanes and surges.
a dear friend told me recently
no one teaches us how to be sick this long
and he was right
we feel old before our time, so very
very old, and the world feels scary
and unpredictable as a fickle
conscienceless breeze.
I don’t know how to describe it, this
invisible thing that lives in my bones and
lungs and blood. some days it is
a sleeping dragon, the only sign
of its presence the occasional
wisps of smoke. other days it is
roaring, charring my insides, deadening
my skin, shallowing my breath, yet
no one can see. they only see
a quiet girl, a girl who stays in her house
for too many days in a row, a girl who spends
more time in bed than outside it.
it’s a weird thing, being sick for so long.
weird because no one understands it
least of all me, who has
to live with it. it’s a weird kind of grace
to extend to yourself, when you feel
that every time you prod your body too
firmly, another piece flakes away, crumbling
to dust. it’s not supposed
to be this way. that, at least
I’ve known for years. but for the first time
as I peel back the layers of my onion
heart, one excruciating film at a time
I think I’m finally starting
to understand why.