I’ve been trying to fall asleep for 17 years
leaving blue imprints of my face on pillow cases
a signature of each dream I’ve had and forgotten.
Take me to church for my medicated tongue
and butterflies on my cheeks,
in a week
I’ll rest my forehead between the pews
on thick books of medical literature
again and again,
pressing a tiny cross into my skin.
I am not a religious person;
my poetry is about the silent h’s in words,
rhetorically questioning rhyme,
sedating my hair into thirds
and braiding my fingers with thyme.
Sacrifice a rib for a sheet of paper,
write me all your recipes,
notes on world history and
a list of pros and cons of living in Berlin.
Onomatopoeias keep me up until
6am
with wide eyes and albums of expired polaroids.
Dilated voices in fluorescent hallways
mix with the whispers of comfortable shoes,
hoping for good news.
After 17 years, my hands are shaky
my kitchen counter has a S-S pillbox
and I love the sound of sleepiness.