bedtime story.

this thing, lumped and disgusting, thrown in the back corner of the room, that's supposed to be my heart. it's bleeding and gross, trying to outlive me on its own. i just keep beating it over and over, because it's still moving.

i'm exhausted, head hung low, sobbing with what energy i have left, those thick choking cries, knowing i could have done better.

my feet are still pushing, scuffling through ankle-deep waste, sore and giving in.

i just want to sleep without having to swallow coated chemicals. when i wake up, i don't want to be tired from battling in my dreams. i'm just tired.

he would be rubbing my shoulders and kissing my neck. he would make me a sandwich and say, come to bed. we'd watch er, and i'd fall asleep on his chest halfway through the second episode. i'd half wake up when he turned off the tv and lit a nightcap cigarette as he played with my hair. then he'd scooch down into the bed, and we'd burrow into fetal positions, locking ankles. falling asleep, whispering.

i'm just so tired. my eyes haven't fully opened in days, and all of my mornings are coated with over-the-counter answers.

i wake up tired, i breathe missing him, and i go to sleep fighting.