the sickness is back. so that working days result in long useless hours navigating the uncomfortable angles of the couch and fighting for consciousness. through the fever, i can't make words stick to sense between the page and my mind. where images are supposed to unfold like childhood pop-up-books. instead they constantly get lost in the constant ringing in my ears. and i want to scream. to make this all fucking stop. the way my joints ache. or the way these flashes come of the way it was in the bad days. i wanted to believe this was over. i could lie for hours against the cool porcelain tub. let water lick me like cat's tongues. but the stinging never really goes away. like running through rain made of broken champagne bottles. and when it comes. the adrenaline. and i can't make it stop. i drink and drink until drunk. because that's the only way to come down. to stop the shaking and the way malignment makes me want to tear down the world like picture postcards an old lover left behind. taped to the god damned fucking fridge in an apartment i moved out of months ago.

i can't believe this fucking disease is getting the better of me. again.

sick. stupid. and tired.

this imogen