I am always on the brink of fracture, always torn
between dark and day. Every version of myself
stumbles through the same cycle: princess, fairy,
rose, thorn. The girl who slumbers also labors.
She still believes she can fashion her own escape,
but sleep is a desire designed to pull, to push
against the need to wake, the need to break
through briar and brindle. It bridles all impulse,
binds all the senses, and again I am captive,
again with the danger, the boredom, the chance
encounter with sword or spindle, a quick spell
to dwindle the self down to dream. It’s a trap
built for vengeance, for vanity, for sudden acts
of betrayal. I lie out of habit, on a lavish bed
or in a coffin made from glass. What I see and
what I hear collect beneath each closed eye.
The muscles will always remember how it felt
to move, to breathe outside this story, to live
among those unburdened by fact or metaphor.
The ear will always recall language, how it falls
from mind to tongue, how it spools into
sound.