Steven Bruce | Author & Poet

Sleep

I’ve slept intoxicated in the womb.

I’ve slept in a squat as an infant and a teenager.

I’ve slept in a hostel for battered mothers.

I’ve slept with bruised ribs and bloody lips.

I’ve slept, restless, after finding my mother’s suicide.

I’ve slept in the back of a car and under a caravan.

I’ve slept with split knuckles in a piss-stained alley.

I’ve slept on the steps of a boarded-up house.

I’ve slept with a three-day hunger.

I’ve slept beneath a bridge with a fresh knife wound.

I’ve slept as an alienated teenager in foster care.

I’ve slept in a cell, stinking of cheap weed.

I’ve slept on bare breasts and thighs.

I’ve slept on wet grass.

And one day,

I’ll sleep beneath it.