Pressure builds behind eyes.
A dull throb echoes through both brain and breath.
The air tastes thick.
Each inhale scrapes the inside of my face.
Every exhale, is a slow retreat, sharpening the knives.
Light folds itself into something heavier.
I move carefully,
for my skull might splinter
with any sudden thought.
Sleep hovers, but never lands.
I am in a holding pattern.
Time drips by in spoonfuls
– of broth, medicine, and hope shaped like steam.
As they curl around my pain,
I yearn, for how it feels
to be clear again…
By Sarah © 2025
Author’s note: This little scribble is inspired by a recent (and terrible) sinus infection that took me down swiftly and kept me there for over two weeks.
By Sarah 