IV.
“Sleeplessness”
Sleeplessness makes me
the beast of relentless memory.
What does it mean to be beautiful
a way this world believes desirable?
What to do in a world
where neither harm nor good
is laudable or faulty?
You keep your hands busy.
Nights, I sink the sharp blade in my
shoulder.
It is almost pleasure
the pain made visible.
The physical
weeping of red—
I know my father is dead
somewhere
and I have nothing to fear.
But this body I resent.
My chest is thin.
My teeth colored a stubborn jaundice.
For the wide bowl of my hips I hold no
fondness.
And I want so badly it becomes need—
the beauty denied me.
I dream boys’ naked manes.
Soft skin, smooth limbs, muscular
frames.
My gangly legs,
my misshapen head,
the scars
on my inner arms.
Why is it harder
to accept this creature
than it is to suffer
another day of war
against myself?
I am this, nothing else.
Love is not for me,
this ruined body,
it’s ugly,
I’ve accepted it, I just need
the sleep
I’ve been missing.
Oh, I could be bound up
in a dark walnut
and count myself king,
were it not that bad dreams
haunt my shortened sleep.
…
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Andrew Tye is a world-famous poet superstar.
His forthcoming book My Son will be available soon.
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