The hush of blankets over sheets is not a comfort to me.
Push it off later and later until he
tells me he’ll make it himself. Reflexively,
I take this pardon selfishly.
For getting up feels a lot like giving in,
and when I lay down I know the ache will begin again.
Here’s the trend:
I’ll close my eyes but all too soon I’ll open them—
that’s the danger in my head,
sometimes I wish I never had to open them.
Don’t tell Melanie,
It’ll turn into a thing and then she
will turn to her notes and tell me
that ideation is a self fulfilling prophecy.
But the prophecy is a part of me,
to separate it won’t turn it to nothing.
I promise you I’m trying
but the answer is hidden under lock and key.
He’s pulling back the covers;
expects me to slip under.
But in sleep, I do not find comfort.