I turn around in the sheets nine times
Through the night— the dust scratches
At my skin, causing illusions of shadows
To spill around and out my veins;
I scratch the dried blood off
And let it instead replace it,
Then peel it again.

You put your head in the pit of my 
Upper shoulder, and at the weight
Of delicate hair I startled;
Corpses fall and teeter with their weight,
And if they are not dead they still fall
With their souls.

Throughout the night, i fall hard
Against the sheets:
Dead, maybe.
Or living too heavy.