Sick.

It starts
With a short
Stabbing thump
Behind the back of the eyes.

It subsides

And then
Begins again,
This time flanked
By a fleeting feeling
A fluttering in the chest.

Again, it troughs

And then
It gets worse –
The creeping of bile
The screeching ringing in the ears
The sudden knowledge that within the next half hour
You’re going to be painting a toilet bowl with the modern-artwork of last night’s dinner.

Sounds poetic.

Then the peak;
A fever that courses
Through the veins; the hot,
Beading sweat on the upper lip;
The shivers that juxtapose the searing temperature
The sahara that is your aching, bastardised, virus-laden body
The inability to keep anything more than dry toast within the caverns of your cramping stomach.

Days in bed; rolling and aching and sweating and dirty and shivery and not in a remotely sexy way.

Then it’s over.
It leaves as quickly as it began
And you’re left wondering…

What just happened?

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