i let down
my twisted hair
and let
you in.

you say not
to worry, but
being bit doesn't
mean you won't
be bitten again.

my matted
knots of dead
strands, are
untangled by
your words, and i
fall alseep.

sleep. the last
place i ever
want to be.

(let me exist in a
place of constant
creation)

i let you in.
now, in my sleepless
state i can hear
your breath through
memories, and i am
very aware you are away.


being bit doesn't
mean you won't
bite again.

my nervous
system feels like
a supernova
without sound.

in the empty
vaccum of space
maybe i could
leave you alone,
but as it stands,

i am getting
my hair in knots.