worries and fears
make for strange bedfellows -
they hold your hand,
as if to soothe you,
and then whisper into your ears
a long list of names
of the people who loathe you.

i try not to be bitter,
i try to escape mental quicksands.
but here's when i don't mind
being called a quitter,
at least i have time,
and my own heart in
my own hands.

when my bedfellows turn
to talk to me in the dead of night,
i turn too - a blind eye,
no indication of despair or delight.
it is better that they rest
in a bed together,
i'd like to run as far away as possible -
the less i know,
the better.