Opaque lights
flood the ceiling
I blink up
strain to find a focal point
not swaying, shifting, escaping me
My brain and my eyes both
move
slowly, mechanically.
Where am I?
What am I.
When is this?
Why can't I feel my limbs.
The orange box
that lurks on the dresser
it lingers and laughs at me
its generic toxins
throb through my temple
course through my faint pulse
Wobbling, weary,
sweat-ringed and caged
flail about in the sheets
I feel weightless
and weighed down
as wet concrete,
both
Drag my hand over damp duvet
clench the scalloped edge
until hand strength falters
I close my lids
force them back open
with an emphasis
that winds me.
What's worse?
The virus?
Or the antidote?
This
I ask myself
every flu season.
