Untroubled her demeanour in the daytime.
Don’t follow her into the night.
She will be unrecognisable.
Everything catches up with her.
And then she lies there in her messy sheets.
The cool air blowing over her nose.
She rumbles on the mattress that buries all her secrecies and hopes.
And despite her fatigue wishes the sun would rise.
A lying ballerina, she stuffs her face in her pillows.
Hollering at her subconsciousness, begging to let her sleep.
Her dreams are lawless, everything may roam freely, so why torture her?
She must enter that realm that knows no outer penetration.
It will make her question herself and life choices.
Disagree with the woman she has become.
Are the awake and the dormant compatible?
Will they be at each other’s throats?
She stares at the ceiling and it pierces back at her gut.
Trying to find a position that cradles her, gives her comfort and solace.
She craves to be warm amongst her inner walls.
During the night she becomes her worst enemy.
Answering to the shadows that deny empathy and give birth to self-doubt.
She builds entire cities when she can’t sleep, rooftops hitting the sky.
She needs the sun to pierce through her eyelids.
Reality is not amongst the dark corners that whisper to her.
She contemplates death, her own end. When it might come and how.
Contemplates how the sight of breasts used to arouse her thoughtlessly.
And now she thinks of what might happen to them.
As she grows older in those sheets, as women age.
Her bed is made of fears that someone else planted there.
It is a surface of abandonment, unholy, the silence brutal in its endlessness.
Listening to the sound of parental dreamlands.
And her eyes are wide open, left behind to cross on her own.