Laurel

My favorite thing Was self pity Aware of my own shortcomings I knew it was the only way I could seem noble I rarely get sick I always say I want to I would lift myself up As the available maternal figure When someone was sick It was my job Especially When it was my mother. And I knew I wouldn't catch it When my siblings are sick And I have to work My mother will sit with them For hours And I think about How I'd hate to be sick But when I'm tired I forget how bad It really is And then I get Sick And what I hate Is not my running nose Or my restless head Or my aching back Or my raw throat But the door. What I hate Is staring at the wall Listening Hearing everyone laughing Playing Crying And I lie All alone. Time measured In chunks of ages Lengths of forever My clock is broken And time doesn't pass And all I can think Through the bleak day And sleepless night Is how I want My mother To come through the door I don't need tea Or ice I don't even need To talk I just need my mother To sit there And stay Until I feel Better And then Being sick Would be the best thing In the world. But the door never opens And I don't emerge Until three days pass And if someone remembers If someone asks I say I'm better But I just Feel Sick.