Sickness
My heart is tired and stiff, but it's good to have a bed to lie flat on, freshly changed disposable panties to refresh me, and white mesh reflecting the faint daylight coming through the cracks in the curtains. The long grey stockings squeezed my capillaries and I felt safe being wrapped around my calves.
My stomach pumps with sobs, while the fat on my belly curves and crisscrosses to form several glistening beige planes.
The part of my thighs that intersected the sheet felt a little warmer, the soft bumps not leaving marks on my skin.
The belly button was just as exposed, moving up and down with each breath.
The shadows mapped on my chest by my inner legs and arms are a little clearer and more beautiful than usual.
When I place my palm over the stomach, its throbbing can be captured with precision despite the lack of heterogeneity making it not so warm.
Illnesses, nameable or unnamable, switchable or constant, all make everything around them disappear into a pall.