for the last several nights

kennedy schuh





Everything is a fist. The sunlight is an assault, bruising the shell of my mock-death sleep. How heavy a chest can feel. The labor of a beating heart becomes fatigue. To be alive is to suffer.

In my shameful dreams, the ones where I find perverse satisfaction, your face is bruised and broken. Everything is a fist, and they all find their way to you. In my shameful dreams, I hope you’re hurting.

In my shameful dreams, the ones that leave me with an aching hollow, I’m little and frightened and this time– this time– I don’t have to be frightened and alone. In my shameful dreams, I don’t have to earn your love.

But these are only dreams, and in waking, you are ten thousand miles away. You are much too far to hurt me and much too late to love me. I rarely dream of you anymore. So, I must claw my way through the darkness of the day and put on socks. I will try to drink enough water and eat my medicines. And most of all, most of all, I will be okay.