By Millicent Howard
Illnesses are said to creep up quietly,
Grasping your senses tightly until you are forced to bed.
And when you rest, they leave as silently as they came,
Slipping through the wind in search of another vulnerable host.
The plague in my home is noisy, loud, and horned.
It came from me. I am to blame. I, too, am deformed.
Yet it has not taken over me; instead, it settles like a tenant,
Screeching and wailing until I must work to silence it.
Milk, applesauce, whatever my cupboards offer.
Only then am I allowed peace,
But the ringing in my ears never subsides.
My body is frail and achy,
I yearn for eternal rest but am never fully left to rot in exhaustion.
It’s a teasing cycle where there are no winners,
Only criers, wasters, and the monster.
This illness has chained me to it with shackles,
A constant commitment that leaves me restless and dark.
Up against the wall one dreadful morning, I remember—
A doomsday that didn’t kill me—O, I wish it had.
It was small and quiet; I felt it should stay that way,
Atoning for the harm it caused, giving me time to recover.
When I managed to look at it for the first time,
It was scaly and wet, like a deep-sea creature.
Now it’s bigger, fatter, crying for more and more.
My hair falls out, and I fear I am becoming it.
Alone with it always, I am nothing but tainted.
Just me and the monster.
All I can do is pray;
Almighty, do not waste me.
Do not make me slave away.
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