This should feel like bliss,
like it does for him
except you’ve gone from tired to high alert
in the time it takes to drive
the five minutes back to his place.
His sweet embrace does nothing
to change your unconscious response
to different bedsheets
as insomnia replaces your ability to sleep.
Counting sheep hasn’t worked in years;
they’re just prey, after all,
to your predatory fears come out to play
and your mind is a coward,
feeding you to the ghosts
for your usual dose of triggers, growing like weeds
somewhere you’re trying to plant only seeds of peace,
but for the former to die and the latter to grow
they both need exposure to air.
So as he holds you close, remind yourself
that underneath this choking layer of soil,
somewhere lies a radical act of self care
and you’re prepared to take the hit,
maybe eventually your body will switch off
and dissolve these flashbacks bit by bit,
maybe one of these days you’ll sink into the pillow
next to him, reaping what you sow,
his gentle breath on your neck,
in a bed that feels like home.