hb collins

Slither softly, into the crack where the bed
meets the wall and the wall meets the corner,
where the roof has molded, caging you in the lonely
whispers of a winter midnight, your very own plaster coffin.
Let tranquil weeping fall on the ears of your ghosts
and the palms of your demons, who wait just as eagerly
as you to your phone, where you pray to a god
you don’t believe in, for just one text. You check location
after location, app after app, desperate, yet still knowing
that neither of them ever cared as much as you tried to for
them. Their empty beds drive you mad in the impenetrable
silence of your dorm room, but even now, the spirits
of their cruel words linger. The armor of your layered
blankets make you confuse sweat for tears, as you steam
in your sorrows for yet another sleepless night.
As you shut your eyes, reviving the sting of exhaustion
you wasted on foes masquerading as friends,
you realize you no longer care
whether or not they’ll come home