My Immune System Has Notes

Apparently,
my immune system has notes.

Not on the flu,
not on COVID,
not on public restroom hand dryers.

But on grass.
On flowers.
On that one innocent birch tree
minding its own damn business.

Oh, and don’t get me started
on air.
Just air.
Too spicy.
Too nature-y.
Too alive.

I open a window and my sinuses
throw themselves dramatically onto the floor
like a Victorian fainting couch
crying,
"THE POLLEN IS COMING FOR OUR RIGHTS."

Suddenly I’m patient zero
in a sneeze opera.
A single daisy blooms
and my eyes
are auditioning for a tragic indie film.
Water everywhere. No plot. Just suffering.

Claritin?
Placebo in a fun hat.
Reactine?
More like “Good luck, loser.”

My immune system
saw one bee
at age seven
and said,
"This is war now."

And the worst part?
It’s so proud of itself.

Like,
“Hey, boss! Just flagging this non-lethal breeze for total system shutdown!
Also? We’re gonna need more mucus.”

Imagine being that petty.

Imagine declaring mutiny
over a tulip.

Imagine setting fire
to your own lungs
because the wind
had the audacity to exist.

Anyway,
I’ll just be here—
swollen, wheezing,
and crying out of both eyes
like I just lost a custody battle with a shrub.

But thank you, immune system.
Thank you for protecting me
from the dangers of daffodils
while completely ignoring
actual threats
like unwashed lettuce
and men named Brad.