White Sheets

I’m awake at four am,
and it doesn’t make a
difference, for I am not
a wild child, and I would
diligently make you believe
that my soul is free.

I’m holding close my pillow,
and I wonder if it’s soft, because
I have never slept in another’s
bed, and you’d think I would
be proud, and so I’d linger on
to accolade nothing, precisely.

I’m not scared of leaving the
comfort of my house this moment
and wander off to a stranger land,
because I’ve never been afraid of
knowing all that I can from things
that I know I can’t.

I’m not going to apologise to reason
my splurging need of having a white
sheeted bed, in a strange land, in
a strange room, where no one knows
what could happen, and sit and breathe
without anyone, but me.


9 thoughts on “White Sheets

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