Tonsil of Trauma


I have been really ill with tonsillitis TWICE in the past month. I go all GCSE drama when I’m ill and feel very sorry for myself…


I pace well-trodden floors aggressively,

hands clenching the neck that represses me,

Furious at my hindered ability to speak and breathe

For a time when I was well, I passionately grieve

“Well” sits on its high stool

Her eyes glare


As if I’d betrayed her

As if I had traded her in

for carelessness, futile sin

Depleted by the monster who lurks behind my lips

Destroyed by my body’s relentless quips

I’ve nothing more to give to this.

This illness

This me

This life

I throw myself onto the bed

My hand flies to my head

Little Women.



I try to imagine a post-sickness me

But fail.

I’ve only ever been this.


My body carnivorous

Feeding upon itself.

I attribute all my failures to this

This raging, tireless pain.

Why did Dante chuck his inferno in my throat?

I watch Tonsil parade and gloat,

Regally donning its pus coat,

I’m on my knees,

a desperate slave

And as it cracks its whip

I WILL behave.

I spit its venom,  await the grave.

A voice interrupts,

‘Grace – please come this way’

I’m being called in.
I’m being called in.
I’m being called in.

A  pitchfork is forced upon my tongue,

and I await my fateful sentence

and just as I’m about to promise repentance…

‘You have tonsillitis. I’m putting you on antibiotics and in ten days you’ll be fine’