what is this
wasp's nest doing in
my throat?
christ, i know i should
be
sleeping, but watching
minutes grow into hours on
this clock lets me know:
my heart is still beating.
all of the dasies
have eyes,
staring sadly at
layers of
brown and
green and
grey
folding me shut while i sleep.
questions left unanswered are
silent revelation;
caving foundations and
toppling the walls.
the wasps have stripped away
even
the closest comforts of
daily life in the last
yearandahalf_
couldn't this just all be
foreign?
i could dream easy,
the wasps would
make peace with the dasies,
carry their wilted leaves on
wings and backs in hopes to
build a softer nest;
one that wouldn't tear at lymph nodes and
vocal chords leaving me
hoarse in the mornings.

but, oh.
fantasies
are so
sweet.

while the minutes
turn me
over
and
over
to
(at last, please)
sleep, the only
sound i hear
is
glass
shattering on the
kitchen floor and
the low destructive hum
of the wasps
stealing the last of my
breath.