E. J. Garcia
Excerpt from an unpublished poem
On this side of the night they're grating on me—the halves, the mad, the inane.
On this side of the night, there's only what I want and what I won't.
This side there is a bed that doesn't want me in a room that is cold and dead and all laid out for me.
A sterile, sterile sleep in a sterile week and a day, every day, with a lid on it.