Sick?

Why won't I call myself sick? I wake up in sweat drenched sheets, filled with a cavernous soreness, my stinging breath stale in the fresh air of morning. I collapse out of bed, subduing patches of floor to walk on while my closed head leads me toward the bathroom for the day's first piss, more uncomfortable than relieving. My throat tingles with a blunt stiffness, flaring indignant when I swallow. My heavy eyes cascade over my bedroom and I soup myself back into bed. I fold myself under a familiar linen shield to sleep with the lie that I am just tired, refusing this sickness.