Sleep

There’s a noose inside my pillowcase.
It tickles my neck when I sleep,
And I dream of falling from a branch like leaves in the wind,
Waiting for that little tug to take the light away.
I wake to see a stranger in the sheets,
A reflection of who I used to be
Before this terror you may call the sun
Brushed it’s hands across my chest.
I start my day by counting the books on my shelf,
Feeling the scars on my hands,
Seeing how long I can hold my breath.
Not long enough.
I put my clothes on reluctantly
And skip breakfast.
I skip saying goodbye.
Sometimes, I don’t wash my hair.
I pass cars on my way to wherever
And see the faces of those I probably won’t see again.
I’m distraught and don’t even think I have a good reason to be.
Confusion firmly roots itself into my spine,
And I drive a little faster so I can feel it pulling back to my seat.
I don’t play the radio.
I get to where I’m going,
Get through the day,
Go to places,
Do the things,
And slip away.
It’s growing late and soon I’ll have start again,
But I’m hoping my bed gets the best of me tonight.

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