the3rdpersonstory

4

Trapped in the night will it ever be morning?

Dressed in black for the day that you’re mourning.

Tears crawl under the sheets of the skin,

Stained, filthy sheets fail the sleepless

Screams. And limp and damp

Salivating fear for the future, and 

The past that pierces and

Twists white sheets between white teeth, 

And the gnaw of regret’s insomnia, and

All of it hinges on the safety of secret darkness.