My head is heavy,
but I'm not really sick.
I curl up at my computer,
wrapped in an old, colored afghan.
Next to the monitor,
a pink, plastic bowl
holds a melted soup
of double fudge swirl.
Keys click.
Thousands of fantasies flow
through the phone lines.
Every age, every race,
every part of the world.
None of it matters.
Humor, slash, fluff,
spoofs, filks, adventure,
crossovers, romance, sex.
Anything goes.
I take it all in,
with wide eyes
and curiosity.
Clicking,
tapping,
scrolling.
I should be doing homework.
I should go back to school.
But the dreams are like
marshmallows on fire,
and I won't stop.
They'll have to drag me away.
Scanning the summaries,
I push everything else
out of my mind.