Illness Is
a lonely place.
It's nothing to do with that person
who asked how are you? this morning.
It's to do with staring through
fear-frosted windows
as snow sugar-sifts the street,
watching through dark windows
as firework flowers burst to bloom in a New Year sky,
or watching day-jaded mums
dragging snot-nosed kids to school -
and wishing it was you.
It's watching cacophonous YouTube family vlogs
because you're so lifeless, so ghastly ghostly-wan,
you feed off the energy like some hideous vampire or leech.
It's listening to people moan
about doing the bloody washing up
while you find joy in the rank sink-slops
of last night's rancid pots, giving thanks
when you're just able to do it.
It's sitting sweltering in 80-degree heat
under summer-scorched ashes
and looking grey as crematorium ashes.
It's coffee alone at 5 a.m.
waiting for the world to wake
or watching fluorescent clock hands creep round
until the hour is godly enough
to text or phone for help.
It has to do with rocketing house bills
because you're awake when the world is asleep
burning midnight lights and fuel.
It's the horror of an unexpected knock at the door or a visitor
because it's 3 p.m. and you're still slop-dollying round the house
in your dressing gown.
It's the horror of being buried alive in an MRI coffin-scanner.
It's taking comfort where you can with whomever
and seizing moments when or if they come.
It's the cliché of feeling alone in a crowded room.
It's about when they assume
the anorexia's back and you're on a f*****g diet.
It's about cancelling appointments, leaving restaurants early
or making excuses not to go out at all.
It's shutting off the laptop because you're too tired to see,
disconnecting the phone because you're so weary
you can't speak, while a filthy grey fog
creeps into your head and mind-twines.
It's reading their words while you fumble
to find your words or the right words,
or being suddenly blessed with the write words
to squeeze out a line or three of poetry.
It's about family discussing the plot of a film
while you're losing the plot in another room.
It's snotty sobbing, screeching at doctors
and mewling for the f*****g morphine.
It's that precipice where you teeter
awaiting the latest test result.
It's fear so intense you frantic-fumble
the phone book, scrabbling for a hypnotist.
It's a late night date with a suicide site
(you flirt but don't know if you would)
researching helium versus hanging
because you don't want to become a burden,
you don't want to lose your dignity.
It's about the outer you staying intact
while the inner you slowly disintegrates.
Illness is all this.
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