the springs are pushing
out of my mattress, poking
throughout the night i
toss and sigh as they
prod and pinch my skin
i layer sheets and blankets
on the top, until it’s comfy
making my bed is
a particularly difficult chore
for the boredom in which
i am trying to ignore
in the time it takes to endure
the springs are still there, though
though i cannot feel them
they are still pushing through
the fabric of the mattress
and no matter how many
blankets i add
sheets, cushions
soft fleece duvets until i
feel like im laying on a piece
of soft, fresh white bread
the mould, the springs
push through the flesh of it
and sometimes, when i sleep funny
i feel the imprint of their clasp
on my back
no matter how
i cover it
the irritation, frustration
no matter how i try
to cover the madness
layers of sickly sweet smiles
a passive tone, a blank voice
beneath it all
beneath the sheets
there is anger
there is anger here
i can’t anchor
at the world
this life
the injustice of it all
at being a woman
at being worked to the bone
at barely feeling like
home is a home
beneath
the happy face
is a disgraced space
in which i am trying
not to let loose the rage
but unlike
a mattress
i cannot buy a new brain.
12:54pm - 19/11/25