Sleep is not as kind
and serene
as you may think it to be
at least—
not for me,
for when I fall into its grasp
thorns are the only remains
of the garden filled with roses and leaves
that was promised to be
and where should be peace
there is calamity
darkness cloaks the light
claiming my shadow for its own
if I could—
I would cry in fear,
but my throat has been scratched
by the rose's thorns and barbs,
my teeth replaced
by their sharp points
that welcomed me into this dream world
and puncturing themselves so deep into my memories
so when morning comes,
I can still feel their sting
and I plan never to fall asleep again.