I like to be suffocated in blankets at night
to drown my insecurities;
my anxiety of abandonment.
I engulf myself in the sheets so that breath is bound.
Oxygen squanders beneath the crinkled fabric.
It’s not that I want to stop breathing,
but I would like to make my heart stop
for just a moment.
A lingering, harmonious moment.
And when the crevices of the sheets lay perfectly on my lonesome skin,
everything seems to be okay.
The perfect bundle of layers clouds my vacancy elsewhere,
away from misadventure.
In this embrace from tangled linens
I am intoxicated by the cinema of my subconscious;
a bewitching film that flees at the break dawn,
only scarcely known by its producer.
And when the quietude is interrupted,
the storm begins to rage again,
awaiting for me to return to refuge.