If I just lie here
pressing myself into the mattress, wanting to be swallowed
in fluffy white linen,
then I can believe you are here.
I can believe that all is right with the world.
Reality is the dropping temperature: it won’t leave me alone, won’t let me be comfortable, comforted, happy.
Reality is the angry woman: she smolders and stabs you in the back, she is quietly treacherous.
Reality is the knife in my heart, the pins in my eyes, the ache in my head.
In the middle of the night with my face in the pillow I can convince myself that reality itself isn’t real. That’s what I need to believe.
The reality, the real reality is that I’m here without you,
without anyone
and I miss who I used to be, I have somehow lost connection with that happy girl.
The reality is that I have a massive headache
and a chemistry test to study for and
I have lost all will to continue.
If I just lay here maybe they’ll forget me,
what I am supposed to do, who I am supposed to be.
Maybe the world will leave me be, pass me by,
and I can sink forever into feathered whiteness and dream dreams of a happier tomorrow.
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