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pratique

Everything you gave me, I threw away.

A few nights ago I had a dream and there were boxes, many many boxes surrounding myself. All labeled, “Do Not Open Until X-Mas.” Last night, at work, there were two marked that way. A few nights before that I had a dream involving a friend I haven’t seen for a while. And I can’t explain it, I can only tell you that in the dream he was hurt and trying to tell me what happened but all of his words kept getting eaten up by the world and no sound came out. Last night my friend was attacked while riding his bike. His face slashed from ear to ear. His throat stabbed and broken.

Sleepy

All I can think about are clean white sheets, warm from afternoon sun heating the entire length of the room. Of stretching myself across, to arch my back, to hold tight a pillow across my chest, to fall wildly asleep.

Closing my eyes for more than a few seconds. Falling asleep momentarily snapping myself awake, contacts dry and stuck. Awake.

“In the far room my cowboy daddy was equally clean of thought. I was the only one awake, for I was growing into a worrier, a world-class insomniac, what one friend would later call a grief-seeking missile.”

—   Mary Karr

Cold. Winter. Sleep.

It gets harder to wake up the longer dark lingers. The feel of falling temperatures outside is enough to make me want to start a fire; outside from the covers, outside of the doors, of the cars, of the body and head I have. The only people that are awake are the insomniacs, the drunks, the bus drivers, and the paper delivery folks in their beat up cars that sound like hungry, broken refrigerators and tiny pull-back toy cars.

shared the afternoon and bed with this thing.

This morning I woke up naked

I know that before I went to sleep I was wearing a sweatshirt, wife beater, and boxers.

I woke up to (I wish I were joking) my sweatshirt folded and stacked on a pillow, along with the wife beater and boxers (also folded).

There are bug bites along the side of my hips reminding me of how neglected that space has been.

the truth is

somedays I really just do not care. all I want is my bed.

in a relationship with my bed and it’s complicated.
i always steal hotel pillows.