IV.
“Sleeplessness”
Sleeplessness makes of me
a beast of relentless memory.
What does it mean to be beautiful
in a way this world believes desirable?
What to do in this world
where neither harm nor good
is found laudable or faulty?
You keep your hands busy.
Nights, I sink the sharp blade in my
shoulder.
It is almost pleasure
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 shoulders are thin.
My teeth 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, their muscular
frames.
My gangly legs,
my misshapen head,
the scars
on my upper arm.
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
within the dark bark of a walnut
and count myself a still immortal king
were it not that bad dreams
haunt my shortened sleep.
…
Andrew Tye is from a town named Temple. He believes all humans are poets. He performs his forthcoming book My Son as a one-man show in NYC. He aims to share the book and the show with national audiences.