It's far from bedtime,
but he keeps tucking me in.
More and more blankets.
Enthralled in this cocoon
of blankets, squeezing me.

I can't breathe.

My face...
is surely red.

My brain feels like cotton.
Cotton is my brain - the pierce
of a bear trap
injecting into my ankle
seems more appealing than
being cuddled,
smothered,
by all the fluffy blankets
in the world...
Because in reality, the blankets
are like sharp rocks
on the gel of my aura.