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Description
My throat is sore
    with the hundreds of unspoken apologies
        I owe myself.

Confining words in phlegm
    and suffocating screams
        inside of coughing lungs.

"I suppress everything."
    "E a t   m e.”

"I will calm your senses. "
    "D r i n k   m e."

Another tumble
    of a fever
        inside the rabbit’s hole.

Waking up in a blur of reality
    and the dreams of night-time medicine
        deluding my sense
            as I try to see though the eyes
                that seem as if they’re closed.

A cold shower
    or my own cold sweat?

Am I bleeding from my heart
    or from nearby my uterus?

(I can’t remember which is the last organ you attempted to infect.)

It will physically leave my system
    but I’ll still have lived days of having something
        dangerous
            and foreign in my body.

Common,
    is it?

"Who are you,"
    asks the caterpillar
        while his clear lungs
            inhale my smoke.

Common illusion
    of stability.

I am as common as my cold.