5:00 AM

My bedroom is obscene like gluttony

my too thick walls align

too straight profane

I peek outside

appalled to find

I'm woven in

that freakish hide

of pavement and time,

tubes and lines,

dollars, lives,

too much is obscene.

Vulgarity

resides for me

inside my dreams

my eyelids do not shelter me,

I leave,

and so I face

too many shades of green

and far too many

things,

winding paths wind my insides

like foods I ate too many times

In pain I run away to find

I eschew analysis of dreams

I think subconscious is a

wicked submarine

that fights you every

way you turn

and can't be cleaned

because it's made of

loose packed trash

a rorschach mess

Of course it only makes sense

In sleep

In my worst dream

a daisy loses petals

one by one,

blink, gone,

clicks like sounds that eyelids make

just faint enough to

stir my appetite

for sharper things

in Tartarus

I would be made of eyelids

squish squish

trapped inside an anechoic chamber,

making fair my anhedonic state

forever tingling

like tape on skin

or joints that will not pop

I want to tear my eyelids off

it's time for class.

Clara Hinds