The phone screams and I whisper for it to shut up, but it won’t relent.

Waking me from feverish dreams it forces my eyes open.

She cries, explaining, a hundred miles an hour, the new emergency and I stare at the ceiling.

I listen, immovable.

I don’t know if I’m too weak to talk or too tired to try.

When did I stop caring if it hurt? She cries and I roll my eyes.

And in the middle of the crying I hear the message, same as before.

Another reason to fling yourself into the spot light.

How does our suffering always bring you a standing ovation?