I don’t understand anything.
I don’t even know what I want.
How can I be so tired, and not sleep?
Why do I dream such debilitating dreams?
Tossing and turning all day long,
trying to make sense of my senseless
living, a body at odds with its mind.
Why, when I say I don’t want you
any more, I can’t live this life,
I’m going at last to leave, do I turn to you
in my sleep, phone you three times a day,
cling to your every mood?
Why do I start up out of nightmares,
run sobbing to your betraying arms?
Why do I fight against sleep, and rest,
and health, and sensible living,
as if a madwoman inhabited my body,
revelling in its decrepitude.
As I inch my way towards health,
the saboteur sows her seeds of doubt,
aiding and abetting my false moves.
The enemy in my camp, she holds
my eyelids open, catechises me,
trying to force a confession, but I
don’t know any secrets to tell –
I don’t understand anything.
I don’t even know what I want.