One sheep turns into four million, six-hundred thousand and five.
It doesn’t make much sense,
because I’ve always slept so well.
But the thoughts of you
have turned into little earthquakes of tiny hooves,
against my skull, my brain, my soul.

Before I knew it, I was coughing up wool
from the back of my throat, and pulling petals
from behind my teeth.

Because once upon a fairytale
you planted a garden into my veins
and it ended up going into full bloom
as Summer broke it’s final days.

I now have a migraine that aches everywhere
and not just within my head and
I’m forced to blame you for all of it.

I remember you put all of this life inside of me,
and used to tend to the rolling courtyards
within my psyche.

However, you faded as most things do,
your color deciding monochrome was
“Easier on the eyes.”

The plants began to wilt without
your sunlight and die with
their roots tangled in my ribcage,
pressing against the lungs I needed.

Wolves began to move into cavities boring
into my brain, devouring the gentle sheep that
used to graze on thoughts and imagination.
They turned my head into a warzone.

They tried to dress up in to the
wool that was left, but illusion works
in funny ways, and they couldn’t replace what
was once there.

Once the sheep were dead and gone,
my head was empty and echoed.
So the pack, growing starved, began to gnaw
on the cracking stems of roses
and tulips
and ‘forget-me-nots’.

I was always happiest when there was
life inside me. But now,
there was nothing but the smell of mildew
and tombs.

I found regret whittled into my hangnails
and insomnia and I acknowledge it for the first
time in months.
So I finally take a breath
and scream out
that there are wolves inside me,
where sheep should have been.