Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s ‘Fever 103’.
Why a source of comfort?
A comforter
Soaking up sweat
like the wall street men
soak up riches.
–
Consuming me.
Strangling me.
Igniting my temperature
another four degrees,
slowly and uncomfortably,
–
becoming me.
Itchy wool fibres
play with my pale skin
as I try to release
the pressure in my right temple.
–
The only way is to break
the skull, but selflessness
grabs at my wrists and
forces me to the ground
in a heap of body and illness.
–
Bound to the chair
society keeps me,
I ask for help but I speak
only to the wall and not the street.
–
The rich gain riches
and I
lose weight.
–
No soup or retching broth
can help me now.
–
I break.
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