because the scalpel of time
drops hints unwillingly
and i am paying attention
i sleep to die into the hypothetical
and dream of the different worlds
nighttime will only tell
lucid to the point of uncomfortable
my body rakes against the skin of the bed
and writhes into the unknown
i grow thirsty in the desert of consciousness
i want more, deeply,
but am unable to move when i wake
Less Than 1%: Surviving My Stillborn 