three am is
when death is like
trying on a red dress
that doesn't fit quite
right, it strangles your
throat with its vivacity
and your breasts poke
out like formless cuts
of meat, approved
by the US of A with
a D somewhere in there -
folded like a hand
in between your boyfriend's
legs on nights when his
breath puffs erratically.

three am is when you
turn restlessly in bed, the
covers on the floor,
toes pointing south
to the corner where you
first huddled against
your fathers belt as it
raised itself and lowered
itself like a mechanical
toy on your upraised hands,
casting shadows that made
you look like the hag that
used to scare you in your
old book of fairytales.

three am is when you
wake from a dream where
you were almost there
but upon waking there is
only the light from
the streetlamp filtering
in through the window
and your hand sweaty
between your legs.

three am is
the state between
dream and waking
where you wake up to wake up
to wake up to wake up
until you've woken to millions
of beds, all of them empty.

three am is
waking to the flash
of atropos' scissors
as she turns her face to her
sisters - the moirae -
and her eyes are that
of your mother,
who walked out one
day with a red suitcase
and lipstick that had
crept onto her teeth.

three am is when
someone calls to you
in your sleep and
the fear in your
lungs threatens to
siphon out your breath
even as you
get out of bed
and look for a hose
and an idling car.