Swallowing chalky medicine.
3.12.18 – Wellness-ing
There was honey in my throat but it was bitter in way that honey shouldn’t be. I’ve never heard of it souring or spoiling and this thick coat ran down the drain with an off taste and a scratch like its sugar was claws. Those crystals perked up, inspired even, at breaths both shallow and full and sought to drag themselves deeper in at the take. Even the water I swallowed seemed to dry out as it funneled down; that viscous paint mixing it with devilish intentions. I started to hold my lungs closed and count the moments of peace where rocks didn’t tumble through the soft bits of my esophagus.
I was waiting for sound to accompany that crude oil. Maybe a rasping cough like running pumice over itself in a strong and steady stroke. Nothing of the sort ever imitated from the rusting pipe, but a discernible wheeze would creep out every minute or so when a breath had to be drawn through the eroding plumbing. Worry was beginning its march from that sore spot towards all the other minor nuisances. Often it had a knack for taking the small aches and exacerbating them to a critical fail point where the body didn’t want to resist and would instead just shut off and become as rigid as a wet noodle. You could feel this process building from that one sticky turn.
There were imps that often poked a troubled man awake, but they knew well to let me work myself over in this course. All the roughed bits were thinking of blistering and that was enough to forget whether I was too hot or too cold to be situated squarely in the dead of night. Sleep was hollow, interrupted by breath, temperature, or phantom pain that emanated from any random area that felt like speaking up. This was the first step towards a lingering sickness, one that rest might wave off. But that panacea was going to be withheld by a bout of worry and wonder if this was progressing beyond fatigue to a chicken soup situation.