Angst - 3. Incarceration

Lying here upon this bed that I have made,

I close my eyes against the darkness--

a darkness that is never complete,

never dark enough for me to slip into the shadows

of my other life within my head.

And I listen to the prickly silence,

a silence as incomplete as the darkness.

Walls too thin to absorb the sounds

of lives on hold, of lives in intermission.

Restless sounds of bodies turning in discomfort,

fighting the sleep that seduces them,

fighting the sleep that refuses them.

Soft, muted sounds of desperation.

Bitten back grunts of released tension.

Groans muffled into a pillow.

Mutterings of discontent

forming a noise that is not quite white,

that is not the steady, droning hum of a refrigerator,

but the disturbing syncopation of a dripping faucet.

Distracting only enough to deny me my escape to fantasy.

And I press my clenched fists against my ears

and wonder how long it will be before I grow numb to it all,

before I no longer thrash my head about my pillow

to try to still the incessant tickling in my ears

and no longer flail my arms and legs against this bed

as I burn to fling my body hard against these walls

to stop the prickling of my skin and the twitching

of my nerves that will…not…let…me…be.

And I turn restlessly and press my face against the pillow

that lies upon this bed that I have made

and add my own muffled cries to the silence

as I wish my skin would harden into a shell of insensitivity,

as I beg my mind to retreat behind a wall of acceptance,

as I whimper to whatever ears can hear my desperation,

“Please, just let me sleep.”