East West (scraps to later revise)

The house is unbearably hot,
so I find myself sitting
as close as possible
to the vent underneath my desk.

The cold air makes my lids heavy.
I am beyond tired,
yet sleep is feared
and thus my subconscious
does not allow such a thing.

We are not to wake up crying.
We are not to wake up screaming.
We are not to wake up gasping.



The room is hot.
Too hot to sleep.
Sirens sing me lullabies.
Not the kind who steer ships,
but the kind that follow protocol.

Fuck protocol.
You should have left me in my bed.
I would have touched myself
and fallen asleep.

I am bitter.
Like the taste of you on my tongue.
Acrid acidity in your words.
Mine are getting shorter.

The cold air,
the writing,
the lullaby,

they're working.


Now all I need is someone to sing me to sleep,
to the tone of an ambulance on its last emergency call of the shift.

Hey you...

Go here and read what is beginning to be the blog of my life. About my life. Struggles and whatnot. Memoirs of an angsty young adult. (Surprise.)