I. Insomnia
The sheep have gone feral—
they refuse their fences,
leap jagged over my thoughts,
snagging wool on the edges of worry.
I count them anyway.
One, two, three—
their hooves echo like dropped coins
in the hollow of my skull.
I turn the pillow,
cool side, warm side,
as if sleep were a shy animal
that might approach if I stay very still.
Breathing slow.
Then slower.
Then aware of every breath
as labor, as failure.
The clock hums louder than it should.
Time is no longer a line
but a tightening wire—
each minute another twist.
I try emptying my mind
but it fills with instructions
on how to empty it.
Try darkness.
Try silence.
Try the shape of nothing—
but nothing has edges,
and I keep finding them.
Morning waits like a consequence.
I lie awake to meet it,
already exhausted
from the act of not sleeping.
II. Uncontrolled Sleep
Sleep doesn’t arrive—
it ambushes.
Mid-sentence,
the world softens at the edges,
voices stretch into threads
I can’t quite hold.
I’ve dozed in chairs,
on buses,
standing once,
leaning like a forgotten coat
against a wall.
Coffee is a rumor.
Cold water, a suggestion.
My body keeps choosing elsewhere—
a dim, interior gravity.
People laugh, sometimes—
“must be nice,” they say,
as I disappear again
mid-laughter, mid-life.
Dreams spill into daylight,
unfinished, intrusive—
a second reality
stitched poorly over this one.
I wake in fragments:
a name I didn’t hear,
a moment already gone,
a room rearranged by time.
Sleep is no refuge here—
it is a thief
that takes whole hours
and leaves me
holding only the blur.
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