White Strawberry

Written by Anna Conway

How kind am I
to let myself hibernate, safe
from the currents of responsibility
unknown to self loathing or
chaos, I lay still and
stare blank,
the only road taken
is from one side of the bed
to another
cold pillow
heated skin
I know this is a form of self harm,
but what’s the harm in letting go
there is a sadness in looking
forward to your dreams
I lift my head
scratch, tug, pull at the
roots on top
awake, no use –
tasteless as a pale strawberry