Vines creep their way into my bed,
slither up the headboard like snakes,
like sharks curving over my head,
like scales on the wall, rainbow baked.
My home is a forest green tomb.
Silent minds whisper, “Go back to sleep.”
But I roll inside them like a womb,
dripping voices like veins in the deep.
I’m chill, pale pink, buttery soft;
all my hair has been spun on a loom,
and the whole of my life up ‘til now,
was nothing but a still afternoon.
Napping quietly beneath the trees,
jungle humming with howlers and swans.
You were never yourself, you were me;
in the aftermath of a good yawn.