CL Bledsoe

Worry Isn't My Only friend

Giggles staccato through the living room,

as I cling to blankets, to pillow. The night

has been so long, and familiar in its darkness

 

but never long enough when you’ve grown used

to its quiet. Tiny feet thunder across hardwood.

I’m thinking about the future, about devastation

 

and hope. I’m thinking about progress,

societal, personal. I could lie here longer,

worrying. I could convince myself there’s

 

such a thing as deserving and that I have.

The footsteps scamper into the hall. The bedroom

door opens. Whispers. A body launches itself

 

onto my stomach with a squeal: awaken.