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I washed my sheets today
with generic laundry soap and more quarters
than a Polar Pop costs.
Tumble dry, heat low.
My bed wiped clean of any traces of my skin or my sins.
Cotton breathes with fabricated lungs.
They hold the ramblings of my sleep speeches
and the secrets we tell between chapped lip kisses.
They wake me in the early hours of the morning
smothering my limbs, trying to pull me back from waking.
Leaving behind the dreams of missing teeth
or a sea squid who wants to swallow me whole.
Fabric stretched over foam and springs
like skin stretched over muscle and bone.
A cocoon, a womb, a safe haven.
A pile of blankets and padding upon which I rest my head
or allow to soak up the sweat of a winter fever.
Foolishly thinking that life cannot penetrate the flannel.
That hidden beneath the plaid pattern
the sun, nor the moon, nor the approaching noon
will find me.
But somehow the light always shines through
casting elongated shadows upon the bedroom wall.
And I awake.