November 15th, Year of the Moon

I have this little virus, and it crawls up to my nose, plugging it up. It’s a dictator, shouting things at my body in German. It makes its way to my chest, and kicks at it with steel-toed boots. It plucks at my muscles, exhausting them sore. Up to my neck it runs, gnawing at my tonsils. What a way to say that I am ill.

Children bring many things. You are supposed to say they are worth every struggle. Like planting a seed that will one day grow into something you can admire, or eat. But they may not grow up to do great things, and I can’t very well turn into a cannibal. Still, I say that I am grateful they got me sick. It is said with irony, as I keep looking after my seeds. This will all make me stronger, like a Russian woman who can wrestle bears.

My brain cells are burning up in the fever. I can see them clearly. Just tiny balls of fire, screaming for mercy. The dictator laughs, ignorant of his own fragility. It will soon meet an army of white soldiers. His lips are warm now, but they slowly grow cold. He will fall, and no one will mourn him.

November 15th, Year of the Moon

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