If my sheets could talk,
they’d be calling for a doctor.
“Come give this girl a muscle relaxer.
She tosses and turns
like she’s lookin’ for disaster.”
That’s true. I usually am.
it’s usually right around the corner.
They’d say, “Get this girl on antidepressants,
she cries herself to sleep
more nights than we can count
and we’re the only ones around
to wipe the tears from her eyes.”
If my sheets could talk, they’d say,
“Someone come bring this girl a box of Kleenex.
We are sheets, not tissues.
We think she is confused.
Our thread count is not enough to swaddle her,
to calm the storm inside of her,
someone comfort her better than we can.”
They would call the national guard,
tell ‘em, “please come stop this girl,
she’s waging a war she can’t win
because she does it to herself
and she doesn’t wanna admit it.”
They’d say, “She thinks she’s in hell
when she hasn’t left her bed
because she doesn’t feel well
and she’d rather be dead.”
They’d say, “Someone please shut her up,
she talks in her sleep
and we can’t afford earplugs.”
If my sheets could talk,
they’d beg to be cleaned
free of the stench of misery that bleeds
from my pores when I sleep.
If my sheets could talk
they’d be screaming
at me to wake up
so I can get some sleep.
You can find "If My Sheets could talk in my debut book, Flames Speak. Buy it here.
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