I Keep Waking Up In Demolished Beds 

after Palm Springs

I keep waking up in demolished beds. 

Semen stains fade except in my head.  In 

Egyptian cotton of the richest of them, shredded,

discolored, deposited in garbage bins 

decade ago.  Though in my hippocampus,

they feel perpetually new, still rough 

against skin perennially bruised.  Madness 

I medicate, some evenings not enough.

My pink, prudent sheets become black, twisted 

about a torso, cuffed to bed frames, soundtrack 

exact of each degrading name, sadistic 

rituals of men rehab’s maybe redeemed,

left me alone in this darkness it seems. 

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated stalker.  She is a Best of the Net 2020 finalist.  Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of 20 books of poetry including Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), and Girlarium (Fahmidan Journal).  She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter:  (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com