O how it stings when the knife twists.
My hot tears carve a path down
the soft curve of my cheek.
It seems that the pain may never end.
Shakespeare had it right:
"To die, to sleep -- to sleep,
perchance to dream..."
For in my sleep of death the dreams that
come bring no relief.
My pillow bears the weight of
a thousand violations.
Who says nightmares can't hurt me?
My memories are vengeful warriors
and sleep their battleground.
My only hope for victory is to awaken;
ay, there's the rub: for in that
blissful consciousness lies the promise
of another bloody night of war.
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