It's February 14, at 5 in the afternoon
And I'm sick.
Sick to my stomach; lagoons of acid loom in the foreground.
Sick in my legs; jello laced with electric jolts trying to break free.
Sick up in my head; my pulse pounds so loud everything else is gone.
It's just that relentless, frantic drum.
ThumpthumpTHUMPthumpthump.


The overwhelming desire to curl up in a shaking ball, to squeeze the illness all away, is nearly impossible to ignore.

It takes the strength of a old world deity to remain intact.
To hold the phone.
To keep my voice from shaking.

As I talk to you.
As I soothe your pain.
As I fix your problems.

Those problems that are my own, in a perverse mime cry.
Yet I can't say a word about my demons to you.
Why?
Because my demons have your name printed on their grey brows.
And that simply wouldn't do, now would it?

It's February 14, at 5 in the afternoon
And I'm sick.
Sick to my stomach; lagoons of acid loom in the foreground.
Sick in my legs; jello laced with electric jolts trying to break free.
Sick up in my head; my pulse pounds so loud everything else is gone.
It's just that relentless, frantic drum.
ThumpthumpTHUMPthumpthump.

But I do my best not to show it.
And you believe my farce.

I guess now thats all thats left to say is;

Happy Valentines day, dear.