Bad Dream

I don’t want to sleep in the sick of my wounds
waking up with red in my hair –
its rust sticking the strands together into sharp points;
I don’t want to press these bruises against my chest
or hang their supple up to wilt and dry.
I’ve done it before –
have felt their drip on my face;
their leak;
their want to drown, or spread, or make sore.
I have been a woman who has slept alone,
but never taken more than her half –
who has left the dip in her mattress to gather sadness;
who has wanted the dust to spread her knees
and make her say anything but Sorry.
I am so God damn sick of saying sorry,
but I don’t want to wake up bleeding anymore.


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