[surely my bed is out to get me]

My blanket
chokes with hands
made out of loneliness.

I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe
anymore without...

alarms sounding.
My mind on autopilot.

(Smothered I am,
in not second-,
but fifteenth-thoughts)

Two years ended in two days//
And those six months
just weren’t long enough.

Death is a twin-sized bed
that reminds a girl
she used to sleep
in perfect comfort [almost].