shitty feelings make shitty poetry

sick at camp blues

I collapse. Down, down, and even further into the bed. I'd rather be home because of this sinking feeling. I've been sick for a good while. The familiar voice in the corridor is a gut punch. Nobody wants to visit, but I understand. I'm sick. My mom who isn't the one I come from gently knocks on the door. She looks at me sadly, the answer to her question evident. She's held my shambling, crying form before. She's seen me down, yet the pity in her eyes at my sickly form grows. I hide under my blankets further. After she leaves I gently sob. Isolation is lonely.