i am sick in bed. to lay in your sick is to lay with your self. To lay with your quiet coughing and distorted voices from your phone and footfalls of other bodies in the house moving, shadows underneath the door a certain essence of a person unconfirmed until i open or crack a sliver and then i will know for sure. that it is not a spirit come to whisk me away but a hand knocking to offer me advil. so i dream wistlessly as i lay in my sick and i hope to go be small enough to live in the nests of flowers and plats at the greenhouse. But oh I must have my phone with me and a sketch book and my partner and some clothes- maybe a skirt. maybe i will have wings too and i will go visit friends from corners where they cant fully see me- shadows under the door i could be anything, anyone, until they open
