sleeping is better
i am a loaf of warm bread.
i am not made of ashes.
i am clutched around my pillow in a cocoon of blankets
whispering me away in sweet denials of
the mornings that I’ll get up and be
and always confused about it.
i am stuck in a slow smile
on sweetest pause
miles back in time
when everything was secret laughs
and soft silences.
words were honey once
but then rot the mouth, the mind…
you long for wholesome substance
– as you clutch cheek-throb in the night
– as eyeballs turn to blood solids
and as you walk through an
your head glows a pain-signal
tomorrow is all cold tile,
the mocking hospital gown.
and one false tear
will only pop the stitches
and expose the sick, slow bleed.