sleeping in

the year i kept my lips in a ring box
i didn't once turn the light off.
from the sidewalk i would look 
& see my bedroom's yellow glowing window.
it was all about remainders. what was
left of us. what was left of my girlhood.
what was left of the sun. my mouth
needed to be worn around your finger.
a boy who wouldn't take his shoes off
gripping the headboard. i took the days
as sheetcake. cut off a square of home
& pretended it tasted vanilla instead
of just white. fork's neck. never once
closing the blinds. my way of saying
whatever you see you see. once, wrapped 
only in a towel, i witnessed cars 
as they army-crawled toward their driveways.
secretly, i woke up everyday bluer
than the day before. i could use 
sleep as the shovel i needed. i could use sleep
like a barricade or a steam boat.
my blankets blurring to butter. a boy
knowing at the back door of the building
exactly what he wanted to discover in me.
a trowel in his teeth. a rake in mine. 
there is nothing but a wolf between 
my two top ribs. quelling him. telling him
we have hours to rest. the floor
is hot lava. the street is one siren away
from becoming nothing but lights.