Maybe

Three. After.

After

You visited me again today when I was asleep.

You left a sticky note on my forehead.

But I'll have you know I wasn't asleep, but the effort was there.

I haven't slept since you placed me in these four cemented walls.

When you come to visit me, you tell me I shouldn't sleep so much.

That it's bad for me.

I still pretend to do it anyway.

I do it to piss you off.

I do it like I count sheep before attempting to fall asleep, to dream about my parents who must worry another day, waiting for me to come home.

I stuck your recent sticky note on the wall beside the bed, starting my new wallpaper to flush away the plain grey cement.

You did that a lot these days.

You'd come to see me when I slept and leave me notes instead of actually talking to me.

I hope you know I never read those notes though.

I don't want to read what you have to say to me.

I counted the number of notes you've given to me as I laid in my rock hard mattress.

There were seven so far.

Seven useless pieces of sticky note flying across my new bedroom wall.

I'll have you know that somedays, I'd want to use them as a sense of time though but sometimes you never leave me notes and I've known a day had passed by.

And somedays, I wish there were no notes at all, and I was back in pillows galore and wrapped up bed.

But we can't always get what we want. You of all people would know that.