�

After the sheets have been laid, and I

Have twisted them to my shape�there is an urge,

I won�t lie, to reach for sleep in a bottle,

To ignore the voices knocking at the wooden door.

All the sorrow, all the you, it is nothing short

Of winter. It is brilliant and white, this thing I cannot ignore,

Outshining my sheets, my walls, my veins.

Witch-like, I burn for what I know.

I will do this every night, twist inside myself, until

When the midnight hour strikes, I surrender to you,

And with flames licking my thighs, I swallow both my nerve

and a pill. Easier, no. I still wake to the smell of burnt skin.