The song of a cotton wool ball. Part of a big, fluffy ball I was. Floating about, enjoying my likeness to the clouds. A small fluffy ball I became, Independent of the joys and fears Of this big blue world. You could call me Cottononimbus. A grasp. A rip. A hurl! What cruelty has seen me so hurt? A sea of red now forms a part on my snow-white being, Tarnishing my purity like the sins of a priest. I am a cotton wool mass. Everyone uses me to remove the tiniest bit of mess. Then leaves me to form my own mess. My friends the needles, plasters, catheters and other medical supply heroes have their own bins. Everyone. Everyone but me. Do I smell? Am I not good enough for any bin? Even the municipal bin? Am I hated more than a syringe? So let it be. Atop the surfaces I shall quietly sit. Disease I shall slowly spread. Until someone tells me Where I belong. This prose stems from noticing how after each skin prick, there's a random cotton wool ball that remains unbinned after a proced
1. Don't touch me too hard. Push me when it's needed, but know your power and control your anger. If you push me too hard I will bleed. Not from falling, but from your fingers being pressed a little too hard against my heart's skin. I have known that heart disease comes with limitations, both physical and mental. It goes without saying that every chronic illness brings with it unspoken psychological strain. I thought of my dad's older brother who looks just like him. That man has suffered from gout for as long as I've known him. I met him when I was 8. I'm in my 40s now. I had my first experience with gout recently. I didn't want to believe it, until physical and chemical tests made it clear. The pain didn't care whether or not I was a believer. After confirmation, my friend François was my first thought. Then my uncle. Is this what this man had suffered all these years? There's no way that can be considered normal. I lasted a few hours before bring
