Idlewild
I love being ill.
The fingers on my bedside table clock swirl like dervishes. My skin has been replaced by nightgown. Curry colours my tiger fur blanket. I’ve seen Mariska Hargitay retire.
I’m a lioness.
My kingdom reaches beyond the 73 unread emails. The soup of shame that I drink on a weekday tastes like nurture with chunks of compassion. They’re queuing to leave me alone.