whenever i see the wishes of those
as insomniac, as dully tragic, but not as
disenchanted as me,
i am inclined to disagree.

they cling to their pastel-colored dreams
of never waking up.
they long to spend their lives in half-sleep,
in pillow forts, hugging the back of a body;
they think that that foolishness is love.
if i wanted to commit slow suicide – if i wanted to stay
in bed forever, to stagnate and wither and die
like a caterpillar trapped in the cocoon,
there are pills i could take, or stop taking.
you are not my magic medication.
thank God, because
i need more than warm flesh to bury
myself inside
or a safe static human blanket in which
to hide.
i require blood and bone and gristle,
and i want to still hurt, but just a little.

that is why when the 3 a.m. thoughts do claim me
and my subconscious slinks to impersonal fantasies,
even then i cannot bring myself to hum
a lullaby
or whisper in your ear; or hold your hand,
or shed
a single tear, or simply watch, even when your leave. instead
i lie with my arms glued to my sides,
too paralyzed to breathe.