Metamorphosis of an Insomniac

by Michaela Seales





At dusk,

my cells turn to honey

I siphon into wine.

Drunk on restlessness and regret,

I stumble through my subconscious.



My cranium walls are littered

with the graffitti of every spoken line

that told me I’d only be loved

when I shrunk myself enough

to become what others needed.



I strip my shadow from the sidewalk pavement

and let it dry on a clothesline,

my goose-bumped flesh

bathing in the pale glow of streetlights.



Any good insomniac knows

how easily the body will devour itself

when its tongue is only familiar

with the taste of its own flesh,

and shame that loves to linger in the mouth.





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