Sick

I look at the sky
and ask God why:
why I was the one to be picked.

Wait. What do you mean, I’m just sick?

My skin it screams;
my nose it bleeds.
I kid you not. This isn’t snot.
And there’s a burning in my eyes.
Oh, no. Are those flies?

I’m telling you I’ve been crudely picked.
Would you stop saying I’m just sick?

Mentally, maybe.
I’ll hide in bed so they can’t take me.
‘Cause I’m not feeling well.
Too far gone to hear the school bell.
Not a second to spare and I think I just saw a grey hair!

You might as well just stay away.
This is no way to treat me on my last dying day.

Wait. What’s the date?
I’m a day late? It’s Saturday?
Well, I think I deserve to sleep in for a bit.
After all, I was just dreadfully sick.