Fever

My eyes flutter
They are raw
And dry.

I elect to keep them closed.
Sleep.
My bed is made of fire,
I burn.

My ears hear a noise,
they can’t tell me what it is.
I can’t hear what they say.

Suddenly, moist cold at my eyes.
The fire starts to dwindle.
The cold seeps
from my skin,
to my blood. Sleep.

My mind is made of stagnant ice.
Awaiting spring,
hoping for the glaciers of thought to thaw.

By: Leilah Bhyat