She Visits … Again

My hands are tingling.
My feet are tingling.
The back of my head is tingling.

Is She here?
Is She present?
Is She (exhaustion) my infection?

My hands are burning.
My feet are burning.
My face is beet red.

I know She’s here.
I know She’s in me.
She is my infection.

The folds in my skin are itching.
The muscles in my arms are clenching.
My thighs are spasming.

She is spreading.
She is overwhelming.
She is the ultimate infection.

Before my untimely death —

My hands ache to be ripped from my wrists,
My feet—blood sausages,
swollen beyond recognition.
My face and torso covered
in disfiguring welts.

Six feet under
Buried—
would be a welcome relief
from this inner invasion.

I lose all control
drop to the floor.
Unable to move

Every part—
in physical agony,
mental torture.

That creepy spark beneath my skin,
A guest I never invited.
She is hot. She swells. She tortures.
She—
will return
I’m sure

A tale I lived to tell —
Until that spark ignites again
A fate soon to be
re-lived.

Such is my life.
A battlefield.
Run by a torturing tyrant.

What I wrote,
It isn’t the worst part —
only what I can put into words.

All that
in fifteen minutes
of hell.

Then…
another hour or two to follow.

I’m still breathing.
That’s the miracle.

Gasping with relief,
Exhausted from the tension.
Thankfulness, I survived.
Again,
After She… left.

Just re-living it
Through words
Brings tension.
That ghastly ghost (I know all too well) will return…