FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

First my hips, center of my solar system, stabbed

flares into, through, weaving along my body

as blood dives

through water. Toilet bowl before

me full of it, rag jammed to my nose so the red wet

boils over, down my throat, a mudslide of bloody phlegm

spills over my tongue, spit into this cauldron of humors.

I'm incanting. A spell. For a new

body. A vessel

with a single crack sinks. Drowns. Frequent nosebleeds

taught me you could not stop the cracking, you simply

waited till it bottomed out on the seafloor.

First my hips cracked, and nerve pain boiled over,

drowned back, feet, ribs, shoulder, clavicle, molar.

Doctors recommended PT. Lying on a gym floor,

smell of sweat and rubber, doing the stretches

the instructor showed me. I eavesdropped

as a wheelchaired woman gushed about the blind

black kitten in her lap. I wondered how the cat

must feel, in darkness, on wheels, gliding over all

as a ship on waters advancing.

The PT doesn't work, nor does my leg. It petrifies

in the kitchen one day, still and sure as trees.

I wobble, feel myself becoming fallen timber.

I cry out, my body's lumberjack, and Griffin

rushes in, catching me.

Later, we're taking

LinkedIn selfies in a library lounge, Griffin wanted

office and book backgrounds, poses at a whiteboard

while I finger their phone's camera. I feel it coming

this time, and sit on a slate couch before

falling backwards

catatonic

sleep paralysis

only eyes move.

Griffin tries to make this the new normal,

cuddles up to me on the couch, snaps a photo

of us, him beaming, all teeth, loving acceptance.

I stare back at the lens like a landed fish at the sun,

unable to do anything but drown in my body.

Doctors won't listen. Recommend more PT.

Try a chiropractor. They knead and shove my

bones around like you'd massage marinade

into a chicken-stuffed ziplock bag. On my last

visit, a pulled muscle in my neck turns explosive

as palm thrust into it explodes with pain,

my groan cut off into mad laughter. I'm giggling

when I get up, I'm still snickering as I shamble

out the door. I spend days, then weeks, bedridden.

My students complain about too many canceled classes.

So my program director calls me, thanks me, fires me.

Again, all I can think to do is laugh.