Ours is a black hole.
The quicksand of a recent
memory, where shadowed demons
keep me from dreaming.

I cannot breathe while you sleep.
The air becomes laden, heavy in my lungs,
fraught with the pain of old wounds.
I hate how I still feel them.

Itching while it heals; I could
pierce the bruise with a blade,
let the burning blood seep out
to coagulate on my skin.

It is so deep here;
a night underwater -
where the stars are unseen, and
the fish are haunting whispers
of my shame.
I should be over this by now.

08/18/2007

Author's Note: I feel compelled to torture myself when I cannot sleep. March, 2007

Posted on 08/18/2007
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