There is a vicious, ground-dwelling creature
Burrowing into my skull,
Maybe a mole,
It doesn’t matter. What matters is
My head is cracked and pillaged.
Instead of gray matter, it’s full of snot
And mucus; it’s crevices drip,
And no matter how much I
Expel from my nostrils, more will come.
I hurt. The mucus has swelled my sinuses
So bulbous and enlarged, they press
Against my eyes and ears.
I hate everything and everyone I see.
Look how freely they talk and walk,
Oblivious to my pain and their freedom.
They take for granted their snotless brains.
Their thoughts flow unhindered by mucus buildups,
But mine inch and hitch and stop
Altogether. Soon, I will transform from a creature
Of bone and muscle
To a gelatinous mass with skin and eyes
And nothing else but slime.
This cold has stolen my good mood from me.
The world is a happy place, today, but I
Have a cold, and I’m miserable.
Whose idea was a cold, anyway?
At least make me sick enough
To stay at home. A cold does
Not excuse, does not
Incapacitate enough to warrant
What I think it should.
Even if I were at home, I’d still
Be cranky and in pain.
Being home fixes all maladies
But this, it seems.
My throat is full of cactus and my
Ears ring, my arms ache, my
Nose leaks, and I curse the one
Who bequeathed me with this Hell.
May he step on Legos for the rest
Of his days, may he never find love,
May his ears forever refuse to pop, may
He always be stuck at a red light,
May all his waitresses be cranky, may
His head sprout dandruff and his mouth
Spit word vomit -and real vomit- on those he wants to impress,
May he misplace his keys a thousand times,
May he say everything he knows he’ll regret,
May all his conquests be failures,
May every book he reads be a cliffhanger,
And may every cold that goes around
Dwell with him far longer than usual.
Copyright © Little Sperling | Year Posted 2017
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