Get Your Premium Membership

Fever Dream

Night rain on the window pane is the night sweat of my fevered life dream. Time bloats like the reflection I try to avoid. Tears on the bedroom floor for however many minutes or hours. I crawled in here, felled like a sick elm, sickly scooped out, hunger hollowed, word emptied. Hands...hands that feel like they don't belong to me any more. Something moves within them, puppets them: a tingle like lightning. icicle fingers too cold to hold a teacup - wrists are winter twigs Fingernails mauve-mottled, heart struggling to pump, circulation slow-crawling. Hands are too blue-numb to grip, and I'm watching the teacup slip... white pottery shards mosaic of tannin stars - the carpet is stained I found an anthology of short stories I first read years ago, before dream winced into nightmare. Opening the book, a slip of paper floats out, white-dazzly as a snowflake. My hospital admission letter, its sudden white shock bookmarking a favourite story. Bedtime stories. Sweating between the sheets with Ray Bradbury, electric singing sentences pressed to my skin. The push and pull of his prose singing my body electric, giving me a word-f**k I won't forget. Ray Bradbury's everywhere, he's in the air, his words arranging themselves into kaleidoscope patterns; strange lexicon of snowflakes, of stars. But voices are reassuring me it's just a little fever dream. Strange how the memory sea floods me as the mind becomes ever more disconnected; the past's wisps floating like feathers through the fog. Fever flicker of faces: Sarah's, silver-shimmery through tears, her blonde hair haloed in teardrop light. Tonight, anorexia's voice is the knife strike in a slasher movie; a killing, shrilling eardrum drilling. It's the chainsaw buzz scything corn, the shadow knife behind the Psycho curtain. My immune system is failing, body breaking down. waves of nausea crashing on my body's shore - gastroparesis slow fast slow fast slow stop start stutter slow stop start - arrhythmical heart Sibilant strobe of whispers, voices; the past's echoes, floating through fever fog...we don't think you're looking after yourself...you're a risk to yourself...I'm sectioning you under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act... The mind-trap minefield narrows to a single word: how? How has it all come to this? 8/30/2017

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017




Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

Date: 12/19/2020 3:53:00 PM
Wow. what can I say. I'm lost for words. Brilliant so well written. full of emotion. well done. love it.
Login to Reply
Date: 12/5/2020 2:23:00 PM
Brilliant well done.
Login to Reply
Date: 9/14/2017 9:22:00 PM
wow,wonderfully written,,,enjoyed
Login to Reply
Date: 9/4/2017 11:07:00 AM
I've said it before and I'll say it again, you are in your own league on this site, I can only dream to write like this, thanks for honoring us with your talent, congrats on another number one winner!
Login to Reply
Date: 8/30/2017 9:02:00 AM
This is stunning. Very powerfully written. Good to see you posting.
Login to Reply
Date: 8/30/2017 4:09:00 AM
Your haibun is exceptional poetry Charlotte and I have tears reading your vivid descriptive lines. It's poetry like this that should be studied in school highlighting the issues of eating disorders. My heart goes out to anyone who is suffering like this. into my faves:-) hugs jan xx
Login to Reply