I am starving myself,
And my skin is dry and itchy.
The thick blankets
Black and hairy
Warm, a protector.
My mother would bundle me in them,
And I would complain
As a child would,
Of uncomfortableness.

Mom, I am that child again.
But this time,
It’s not the blankets.
It’s me.
I’m thick and hairy and uncomfortable,
Of myself.
I feel weights on my arms and a tiredness in my legs which beg for rest
That never shows up.
What it wants rest from is many things.
But I feel the first,
It wants rest from me.

I want to take a break from myself.
For I can never do it
For myself.
I’m so sorry
To myself,
I tried to be the plush sheets
Or at least something better
Than parchment.
But I am rough,
Gathering sand
A landmine and a tomb.
Catering to the hierarchy
In my mind.
Of myself
Cutting myself,
Slicing myself relentlessly,
Taking everything apart
Each day is not great
But that’s what I’m doing.

I don’t know what I am.
But I’m a blanket,
Of consciousness
That’s considering
Never to be warm again.


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