Roommates

Tonight I crawl into your bed with you
and cry myself to convulsions,
and you say nothing as the earthquake
in my chest rocks us silently in the dark.

“Are you okay?” you ask, and no, I’m not,
I’m shaking my head like an aftershock.
I can’t talk. And you try to hold me still
as I try to hold myself together.

I want to tell you
that he’s different from us, you know.
He doesn’t have tectonic plates
beneath the skin, a ring of fire
in his eyes, or a fault line
in his nervous system,
like we do.
He’s different.

He’s not like us,
we’re so close, soul sisters
best friends,
almost lovers.

What does he have that I don’t?
That gives you solid ground at his home?

But I cannot speak,
I cannot breathe through the tremors,
So you stroke my hair until I calm,
And against all odds I survive disaster,
And revived, manage to crawl
back into my own bed,
across the room.

How to get out of bed

When it’s one of those mornings
where it hurts to think conscious thoughts,
First, swallow the voices like a multivitamin. Then,
shrug out of the covers and into a coat of thicker skin.
Splash the insomnia from your face and
Pen a line of sleep around your eyes in black.
Then lipstick on a steady smile, if desired.
Lastly, pull, with all your remaining strength,
the greasy anxieties off your shoulders
and into an uptight knot.
Now grab your keys,
You’re already late.