There’s a lump under my back, and
I’m soaking wet with the sweat of anxiety;
Insomnia has had me in its clutches for a week now.
Images in my head keep changing: I’m free,
No, I’m captive. Different versions of me hide behind the couch,
Pregnant with memories of surviving somehow.
I had more things than this last week, many
More possessions, each with their own story of
Days when I was lucid, sane, solvent.
For some reason I have become willing to settle for
Less in my life, items diminishing, the sun setting, as
I slowly waste away, sleeping on couches.