today I don’t get out of bed

I let my navy sheets

envelope me,

in a suffocating embrace

of sweat and salty tears

I shut my eyes

against the light streaming through

my windows—

I decide tomorrow I’ll get curtains,

dark and unyielding

to the pervasive summer sun

I take shallow breaths,

allowing my lungs to fill only halfway,

feeling my chest cave in on itself

with every silent scream

and every empty sigh

I mold to

the memory foam

of my mattress,

until there is a human-shaped

space

left when I finally leave

(which won’t be for awhile)

today I don’t get out of bed

I won’t,

I can’t—

maybe tomorrow

will be different