Every night as I lay in bed
I close my eyes gently
and lying on my back I would
cross my hands over my shoulders
place my blanket over my face
and pretend to be dead.

In my death-like sleep within
my cold cloth coffin I lie motionlessly,
finding joy and peace in the sounds of
the rotating fan and of my brother’s
snoring, like near soundless sorrow at
my own funeral wake.

I’m a fucking weirdo.