It's whispering doubts and voicing pains seductively
showing me productively, things I've failed
to process well, that I don't need, don't need
to have thrown across my windowsill and block
out street from sharpened gaze
I know already, it's telling me, forsaking me
I put it there, most carefully, decided and deliberate;
shelved cautiously
I don't need my mind to run it over, run it past me
run it round me
now I'm crushed beneath it, holding up my skull
and brain above me,
my mind won't let me sleep again,
and the situation won't mistake
my plans, to sleep in dreamless sleep again, will never
now engage my lids, will never drop them down and down
as whisperings of insecurities prick my lids back to
extremities of things said and done, associated with
experience. That won't quit, won't drive away
even though I tucked it up there high and asked
it nicely, please to stay, and not to
burn it's way back down, to trouble what little
dreamless sleep I dared protect, blissfully, unaware
controllingly, that such sleep was meant
to soothe and love me.
And instead it does abuse and hurt me
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