There are probably better ways experiencing Cannes.
I doubt whether this will be an all- time favourite.
It`s telly, bed and Diet Coke.
Yesterday there were beaches, waterfronts and wine.
But then, all of a sudden.
It`s over.
Gone.
We crossed the street to get closer to the train. These city- trains, packed with tourists. While talking and rearranging bags and purses, we examined the wagons, eagle- eyed.
But in a flash, the wagons shifted. What was the beginning, and where was the end? Were there three available seats there? Or were there only two? Unfamiliar voices. Different languages. Shouting one second, whispering the next.
Words and voices mixed thoroughly, and soon there were echoes and reverberation all around. English words came back in French. French came back Chinese.
Sound everywhere.
Sound without meaning.
Everyone screamed
while I kept quiet.
The city
like a cloak.
Wrapped tight.
Legs weak.
Then
weaker.
Heartbeat penetrating
every inch of
my skin
Damp. Moisture. Sweat.
Did I fall?
They lay me down on the ground
Words. Looks. Hurry.
Words of comfort.
But I was calm.
I`d submitted.
They poured Coke down my throat
and soon I was able to walk.
So here I am.
At a hotel, in Cannes.
With diabetes.
Perhaps with diabetes.
Celiac disease.
And now.
Diabetes.
21 years old.
Should have been at bars.
Restaurants.
Looking for boys. Men.
French men.
Instead I`m here.
With diabetes.
I`ve known it for a while.
But then, I`m not so sure anymore.
Nothing is ever certain.
Mum warned against mirrors.
There`s a towel hiding it now.
They`re sick too.
Still.
I`m so much sicker.
Let me be just like them.
Stomach flu in Cannes.
Should have been enough.
I feel it on the inside.
From within.
It wants to share.
Notify.
Without mirrors
I can still see.
Rashes.
Wounds.
The red.
Captured it all
For you to see