Downtown I found a handwritten sign:
Have You Been Having Unusual Dreams?
There was a number to call.
That was all.
I think I saw it yesterday, because I don’t remember
taking a walk today. (But
it wasn’t a dream.
I would remember that.)
At the coffee shop, the baristas thank me for not screaming at them
over a three minute wait.
(It wasn’t a dream.
Someone would have screamed.)
The coffee shop has a number to call, comments or concerns,
and no one ever answers.
I leave a message:
you’re doing your best.
My own voicemail is always full of messages I can’t bear to erase.
I call myself anyway, tell the dead air:
you’re doing your best.
Today I found a different sign downtown:
Sweet Dreams - Sleep Deprivation Kills.
That must be true
because I don’t think I ever sleep
and I’m not sure if I saw that sign, or any sign,
or if I would have seen a sign if I had left the apartment -
and it may have been days since I did,
and when I say today I may mean yesterday.
And if I don’t sleep and I didn’t see that sign then
it may become more true,
and it does feel
like being killed.
I’m always looking for signs
and I find them, sometimes -
in days that seem like dreams, that twist and turn
into sleepless nights, that toss and turn with me
as I dream that I’m dying
while I lie awake -
but if or when I don’t
I still
dial my own number,
reassure the silence:
you’re doing your best
and it feels like being killed.
One day I might see a sign
with a number to call
for someone more worried about
doing their best
than the knife
at their throat
but I’m pretty sure
that no one would ever answer and the voicemail would always be full
of messages no one
could bear to erase
for comments or concerns
or someone’s last words.
Christine is an artist and writer based in the Pacific Northwest. Christine’s writing explores themes of chronic illness, trauma, and nature. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Salamander, Rust and Moth, CHEAP POP, Reservoir Road, and elsewhere.