after 3 days i give up on sleep & give in to everything else

an 8 is a 3 with it's
mouth all closed & i laid
awake thinking of how it feels
to put your thumb on the not-sharp
side of the knife.
i peel myself up, some kind
of rind fruit, my stuff 
all orange & sweet 
cantaloupe or tangerine:
with necks like puckered eyes.
somewhere my mom was snoring
& my dad compared the noise
to a chain saw. it cut holes
in the drywall. 
it gnawed a silhouette 
of everyone, haunting 
a house by nightlights,
dad & his living ghost.
do i talk in my sleep?
i might & if i do it's 
not me but a string 
of previous selves desperate
for a mouth to make
promises with. 
listen to them & write
them down, this 
is where the knife 
comes in again:
cut the language 
into the bed post 
or the wall. no i don't
have a bedpost. i have 
a twin
sized bed & most days 
its size feels coffin like,
i hope they don't bury 
me with you, there's 
not enough room & 
if i'm going to 
be an 8 i'd like to 
have room for decorations.
a bowl for a cave fish,
still hearing her snores
under the earth
i ask someone if it's
just an earth quake.
no answer just the house
crinkling & reptilian,
metal-scaled & shrugging 
off a playground insult
making its way through 
the pipes.
i ask the house 
if it will dig 
the hole for me, 
not too deep, not six feet
i need to be able to crawl
out if i change my mind.
a gust of wind rattles us.
i put my thumb to the back
of a knife, stand there
by the sink just caressing,
ignoring the other side. 
i open my mouth to talk
with both of my mouths:
one to laugh &
one to ask for silence
& sleep.