Do Not Tell Me to Sleep
Do not tell me to sleep.
He dreams in sound and memories of things he cannot change.
There are words that he can only see in his daydreams, fragments of ideas shaped into color and serif.
The lights are too bright.
Do not tell me to sleep.
He hasn’t seen the bottom of the coffee pot in a week.
The bathroom tiles are slick with things that are not steam and he’s not sure if he should be scared.
He doesn’t remember what it’s like to go to bed without counting to ten.
Do not tell me to sleep.
Bodies are not to be trusted - not even his. Or his. Or hers.
Stay away from the vents.
Stay away from the vents.
Do not tell me to sleep.
He’s only thrown up once this week.
He can see the whites on his nails again.
The skin on his fingers have stopped bleeding.
The razors whisper across stubble and not across skin today.
…
Maybe it’s not so bad.