tucked away in milky grey folds
of a blanket she cannot shed, bled dry
of hope, she hides

not once in this blue moon
has she smiled, made love, or
had Haagen Dazs, her last
drug of choice

for eons, she hasn’t moved
a muscle, but inside, the command center
is writing recipes she won't  
have the appetite to cook

if she could will herself
to sleep, to abandon forever
circadian clocks, she would

but that won't happen--she
would need to be truly alive
to really die