Discharged

I am a sick person, so do not feign health before me. Your virus calls out to my virus even as you smile behind a glass of lemon water that warps your visage. No matter the rigor in schedule, despite a well practiced and stony posture, I can still make out a secret quiver. It is not possible to be the mosquito's favorite bite while enjoying a dip in fever. You pretend not to burn as I do. Yet if we both sucked glass at the same time, the mercury lines would race like crimson bullet trains. I have unlearned the scam of convalescence watching you choke down herbal broth from a distance. Do you know how hard it is to play the wallflower as you dance check to check with reputable physicians. Here is the scandal they keep to their vest as you empty your quaffers on dubious remedies; illness stabilizes once you stop fighting it. Maladies desire partnership, not conquest. Red eyes are no cause for sorrow. Body aches are not reviled after the consummation of marriage, nor are chills after a listening session of Bach. So why curse the sweet pathogen that has given you two in one glorious experience? Let me teach you how to speak with a streaking white tongue. The glands on the far sides of your throat only hurt when you press them soar. So stop. Embrace the swell. Does a frog die when he puffs out his gullet? You will be just fine. Do not offend me with a N95. Breathe in what I breathe out. Touch my flesh, it is warm with the fuss of antibodies addressing invasion. If they would only lay down their arms and make peace with weary sojourners. Do not aspirate on an assortment of cherry flavored cough syrups. Let the great work go undisturbed. You will not weaze forever. Your eyes will not pour out endlessly. Our vitamin is exposure. We do not hide. We touch and unify with the contaminant. This is mercy.