Rigidity

I don’t like fever. I think most of the people don’t like it as well. And it is obvious, who wants to be sick anyway.

I don’t like the cure as well, all those insomniac eyes keeping a close look of my vitals and temperatures. All those hands touching my forehead to check if it’s gone, Naked sponging. I don’t want to get better anymore.

I don’t remember how long have I been hiding all my diseases, chronic and temporary. My anxiety, my tachycardia, cuts and bruises, fever. I have found a place underneath my bed to hide from my monsters. I have spent decades without breathing and making sounds.

It hurts I want to breathe, but the bed doesn’t crack. It is so soundless, spineless days go by, I don’t change my sleeping positions, I don’t sleep at all, my body rests as it responds and get tired of no cracks.

But that doesn’t matter anymore. It’s just I hate fever. I don’t wanna see hands, touching me at night. I don’t want cure too.