Fluorescent ghost on ceiling.

Heaviness,

soreness

traces the thin bodies of my veins

the ones in my neck eager to be pinched

punch themselves through my skin.

 

Cruel,

to wake with body arrested,

clamped in fetters

that pinch,

that mock.

 

Aged roses mimic the shade of expired blood,

staring at me through a chink in the door,

sitting comfortably in chilled water,

crystal pool,

mocking every wrinkle pressed above my brow

where stingy sweat hides.

Mocks me, too.

 

I am victim to mouthless enemies,

to perfect flowers gifted by

one who cradles me by nightfall.

Absent of sound mind,

I identify them as sinister shapes.

 

The pain in the back of my eyes predict a sleepless night,

night that pastes eyes to the door of the room I sleep in.

Eyes on cabinets.

A gaping window shows bountiful landscape drenched in fresh air,

the material this room lacks.