I don't sleep much these days.
Not that I ever did—
not since that summer when
everything rotted beneath my hands.
Back then, I learned how to swallow sleep whole,
how to chase it down with prayers that never landed.
Now, even the pills don't work.
The radiator hisses. Heat clings to me, suffocating.
My husband stirs,
his breath steady, his face soft in the dim light.
He is kind in ways I wish i knew how to be.
Somewhere in the heat of this room—
between the undone laundry,
and the whisper of his breathing,
the weight of all i am not—
there is a version of me worth keeping.
If I were better—if I were whole—maybe I'd fold his shirts without resentment, maybe I'd meet his gaze without feeling like an imposter.
She would not flinch at mirrors.
She does not hear the basement thieves,
or wake to their hands in her dreams.
But I am here, instead—
awake, aching,
waiting for the truth to seep in.
Most nights, I lie still,
trying to sink, trying to disappear.
But I think anyway—
of hands that moved too fast,
of breath that was not mine,
of how close I came to leaving,
of the way dying almost felt like relief.
I haven't been sleeping.
And in the daylight, I barely move.
Nathan comes home,
carrying the weight of a man who loves a ghost.
I see it in his tired smiles,
the way he says my name.
I know it is exhausting to know me.
I know it is terrifying to love me.
The shame is old now, worn-in,
but it still fits like a second skin.
Nathan tells me he is proud of me.
"You're sober, you're alive, you're living."
I wonder if it is true,
or if we both just need it to be.
Please, hold on a little longer for me.
