I lie there
Blinking
Staring at the ceiling
Trying so hard to pace my heartbeat with the tick of the clock
Failing
Yearning for “the sick treatment”.

It’s the treatment one gets
Especially when you are a kid
When another person would pull the blanket up for you
Spoon you with some soup
Or make you some milk.

I’m not sick.
However, I wonder…

My temperature feels fine,
But I don’t.
I have no such gash on my chest,
But something in there’s throbbing with pain.
I have no asthma,
But I find it difficult to even breathe.
I’m not even cold,
But my hands are shaking.

And yes,
The “sick treatment” is impossible.
I have to pull the blanket up myself.
I have to eat the soup by myself.
I have to make the milk myself.
I have to get better by myself.
I’ll have to fix me with me.

I’ll have to make do with my dog-eared journals
Melancholic beats
And quote-filled Facebook pages

Because you only get the “sick treatment”
When your mother notices you
Sniffing around with a runny nose;
Or when your father checks the thermometer
And sees 38°C.

But this,

How could they see this?


Words by: Cherry Rose Guillermo Copyright © 2017 Petrichors and Metaphors

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One thought on “38°C

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