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
Fool.
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.
Beth.
Death.
I try to imagine a post-sickness me
But fail.
I’ve only ever been this.
Broken
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’
