Bedsheet

By Matthew Barton

A hole in my bed sheet

I got a hole in my bed sheet

somewhere I can’t sleep

a place my face weeps

no one will listen to me speak.

In her blank tone that line repeats

“We are done. I need to be free.”

I disagree.

Silvery curves would cover endlessly

our bodies laying long feverishly,

but there is no more warmth in me.

Wearing this hoodie I’m going to freeze.

It buries my mouth. I can’t breathe.

Her boyfriend, I will never be.