Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

There Is No Hope Of A Cure

I set fire to myself,

in my sleep,

sometimes.

Pouring out all my rage,

swimming under the sheets,

dreaming,

waiting,

nestling into night time,

and the freedom it brings,

being blissfully unconscious,

until I hear a good night,

returning home,

and I recall,

being young,

being eager to enjoy each night,

in case another one didn’t arrive.

I am tired,

as I lie awake,

not sure if sleep will join me again,

not sure if I just want my own company,

for a couple of hours,

as the good night goes to bed,

with water,

paracetamol,

and regret.

If you’ve ever wondered,

why I sleep so much,

then you should know,

I am tired.

I am tired,

of seeing this world sometimes,

and so,

I sleep,

to escape,

to distract myself,

from escaping entirely,

and even now,

I know,

you don’t know that I’m being honest,

and I’ll never tell,

in case you send me to an escape I do not choose.

I was not made for the wards,

or the morgues.

I was made for a meadow,

that exists,

only in my mind.

A place I’ve never been,

unless I dream it.

One day,

I might move there,

and you’ll stand over my bed,

exclaiming disappointment,

sadness and regret.

Or,

you won’t,

but I won’t know,

with my hair braided,

brain dead but happy,

flying through fields of wheat,

like an Austen heroine,

or a disgraced prime minister,

rested and restless,

as I explore newfound imaginary freedom.

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