E. J. Garcia

Excerpt from an unpublished poem

On this side of the night they're grating on me—the halves, the       mad, the inane.
On this side of the night, there's only what I want and what I           won't.
This side there is a bed that doesn't want me in a room that is        cold and dead and all laid out for me.
A sterile, sterile sleep in a sterile week and a day, every day,        with a lid on it.




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