CL Bledsoe

When you sleep, flames

flicker behind your eyes.

You’ll wake, to the neighbor’s

fists on the wall, their complaints

about the smell of smoke.

How long has it been since

your bed caught fire? Maybe

you’re not dead yet. Maybe

you have been all along.

Smile. It was all a lie. Everything

you've ever done sits waiting

for you to get it right. Every face

that ever followed you is open

and still soft. You are so tired.

You want to be done. But you

haven't even begun.