The sheets are stone against the bed,
crumpled in a mountainous rock face
by the footboard, and the blankets
lie spread out on the floor like
a valley at the foothills.
Something in these sheets pricks
the edge of her mind in the night,
a chronic tautness in her muscles
to fuel the insomniatic twitching.
She covers herself in earth each night,
buried alive beneath quilted cliffs.
She hides her face away
in ruffles of eroding lace
while day kisses her one last time,
as he turns out the light,
and locks the door behind him.
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