alarm clocks don't work

i am an insomniac, aching and pacing, circling
bedrooms and bathrooms with blinking eyes.

i make myself a prisoner in my own room
by inviting you over. again.

the last time i slept, i dreamt that i showed up at your work.
in aisles of printers and disk drives,
you kissed my neck. you apologized
over and over and over.

i woke up in the bottom of my closet. again.

i tried sleeping with someone else
who will never be you.
and his hips bruise mine and i choke
all the way to the bathroom floor
covered in him, sobbing, vomiting
bent over toilets and tile
without a word
to make it stop.

i never sleep and i can't breathe
and you're getting on the bus.
i hated you that night and loved
you in the morning, in your brown pants
and messy hair while i curled
like a question mark
into the deep red folds of your sheets.

my room is covered in half-finished cups of tea.
my desk is covered in chalky white powder,
sleeping pills split with pen knives.

i never sleep anymore.