There’s nothing poetic about loneliness.

Loneliness is cold;
it’s wanting to turn on the heat
near the end of April,
fingers aching to be held,
my limbs tucking themselves in.

These walls are unoccupied
except for my shadow.

I prepare another cup of tea
because what other option do I have?

If I sleep, you could take my safety away.

If I stay awake, I can lie to myself
until my eyelids close,

and I can’t hold back the truth anymore.