I could be a toddler

knees to chest

sucking the thumb

of sweet release.

I could be glorious King Tut

wrapped like a burrito

with arms glued

to his imperial thighs

or I could be the sarcophagus

confining his royal pillow

without thoughts

without regrets

but Red Bull

caresses my throbbing brain

with punches of

“sleep is for the weak”.

I want my roommate

to wake up early

and apologize

for his contemptuous snores.

I want a pair of doorstops

to prop open the gates

to my bloodshot

eyes.

I want the ancient hieroglyphs

on my LED screen

to become English,

just once more.

Sleep calls me,

but history papers

do not write

themselves.