drowning in blankets

i dont know what this is, but its long so i understand if you dont read it all.
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the only way I can tell it's summer, is because the orange light of the slowing day creeps across my bedroom walls in sheets, and make nothing that lasts golden. this I know to be true. I know the world will go slower from here on, at least under this part of the roof. that's okay with me, I want to soak up every ray of bronze spray. it fades as my eyes close, slowly and then it's gone. I'm gone.
I rise late the next morning. it doesn't matter, I have nothing to be today, not a sister or a daughter or a friend or an artist. for once I can just exist, and be as bad at it as I like. I still have my blanket around me as I walk the halls and into the kitchen, where housemates-come-vague friends stand in pre-fab outfits.
"you look like shit" I pause, nod an affirmation, pull the blanket tighter and open the fridge, blocking them out if view.
"are you not getting dressed? I thought you had work today?" a softer tone now, they've worked out what I'm like.
"I'm ill. sick. diseased, poorly, rotten. I'm not doing anything today." i take sips of 3-day-old 'fresh' orange, immediately feel like throwing up, and replace it. I don't fully close the fridge. I'm tired. my knees are weak, I slide down the cupboards till I'm sat in a heap against the floor. I realise I'm rocking back and forth, and they're all talking in hushed, rushed voices. words float in the air, but they are too fussy too hear, too warm too feel. I brush lank hair away from my face, push my fingers into my eyes. the blanket reveals my arms a little, the house mates gasp but not out of suprise- no, out of sadness. "she's done it again" I hear above the screaming of the light. I lean to my right, fall to my side and lay curled under the thin blanket. a door opens, probably in the halls but it could be the echo of one miles away. there are hurried footsteps and I feel hands on my shoulder, firm, reassuring, bringing me back a little. they raise me so I'm sat up again.
"look at me"
I lift my eyes, find his golden blues starring back, flicking around my form. "shit" he says, the word forms slowly on his tongue. he lifts me, carries me to the bathroom, where he sets me under the shower head. he takes the blanket. my arms reach out for it like a babies, he holds my wrists, kissing every mark. I seem to surface as if from drowning, no better. certainly no worse.