#indigent press

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The sofa is off limits, so you slouch backwards into a desk chair that leans on the precipice of a tumble. The sweat drips slow from temple to neck and your eyes flutter a morse code of illness. Your mind flashes back to your old twin bed, the comforter up to your nose, the persistent hum of a thirty year old dehumidifier. You think you're dying again. Sweat it out, you tell yourself, like your mother would tell you. You just have to ride the sickness like the waves. Your blurred eyes spy your toes. You wiggle them with the fascination of an infant. Merry-go-rounds spin when you dream - games of tag with cute little girls - girls with names you can't remember. Swings with soft plastic seats that bend and bend - legs pumping you higher and higher. You swear you'll touch the sky.