My blanket
chokes with hands
made out of loneliness.
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe
anymore without...
alarms sounding.
My mind on autopilot.
(Smothered I am,
in not second-,
but fifteenth-thoughts)
Two years ended in two days//
And those six months
just weren’t long enough.
Death is a twin-sized bed
that reminds a girl
she used to sleep
in perfect comfort [almost].
© 2007 asphyxia; Jolene Korrin Long
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