The sound the bed makes

I like the sound the bed makes as I shift at 2am. It reminds that me I am not alone. It reminds me I am enveloped in a cocoon of cotton and wool and flannel and polyester blend, the thread count of which rubs the warm smooth skin of my calf.
Insomnia is when you are in school and waiting for summer holidays. So close yet so far. So far yet so close. That is what insomnia feels like.
It’s funny cause I’m meant to be sleeping. Pills that are meant to be helping me, that were making me sleepy are now making me an insomniac. Or an insomniac. I am unclear as to the terminology, either way, they made me drowsy during the day then they made me awake during the night and now I can’t sleep.
I try to count sheep, finding myself wondering about humanitarian practices and becoming sad for lambs. I choose to stare at the back of my eyelids and count the flickering universe’s I create in my head, each beautiful in its momentary fragility.
Now all I can think about is the sound the bed makes every time I move and the way that sound feels against my skin. I wish the warmth of the bedclothes and the gentle rustle of the blankets would penetrate the chaos of my inside.
Cause inside me? This medication is causing all sorts of issues. I have cramps and nausea. I have dizziness and faintness. I have anxiety and I know it’s not me it’s these pills talking and it’ll be fine once I adjust and it’ll all be fine once I adjust I just have to adjust I just need to give it time just give it time to adjust just give it time give it time give it time give it time to adjust.
I am weary.
I like these blankets. I like their familiarity in times of uncertainty. I like their warmth.
I like the sound the bed makes as I shift at 2am.
Kim Cong © 2017
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Blog Poetry

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