I twisted in my bed
and focused myself at the suspended darkness.
night isn't for sleeping
it is for ruing and hurting and apportioning blame
mostly at yourself.
children can sleep
their slates clean
their futures longer and pasts shorter
their scars growing shapes in farther times and possibilities,
life yet to chisel an impression
but adults —
they live in a world with sharp edges
where mistakes often cut deep
that keep from healing
and struggles of a day
can chip a million things away.
so they have to stitch every fissure
caress each gash
seam every crack
in their beings
in the night
so they don’t collapse into a million pieces
before everybody else.
They toil hard to forgive themselves
in an unforgiving world.
For all the inevitable fuck-ups.