Poetry By Angel Rosen

Ian Sane CC




SLEEP HYGIENE

My teeth never fall out in my dreams.
I drink back my sabotage, then I
have total control.
I often dream of high school. Red lockers.
my intricate self perfectly stuffed, 
slowly walking down the halls,
afraid that a seam will catch on someone else’s
paraphernalia, tearing me open.
I would be found out.
A clock telling me it’s 1:57.
I put my head down. I say I wish I wasn’t here.
I say I wish I was never born.
They’ve heard it before. They hand me
a garbage bag full of popcorn.
They hand me garbage bag to throw
away the person I have only been
since August. When I graduate, I stumble,
my legs are sewn shut, the mending visible,
yet I wear shorts. Someone hideous gives a speech
but I know they are younger than me.

I think about everyone I could’ve loved
if I had met them. I practice being seventeen,
wake up to be thirty-two. I wanted to go back.

The familiar ache. The grim. The why’d you,
and I’d rather not. The Google Search
history of is my math teacher a creep?
Do I like women? &
How to die really fast.

If you didn’t think I was special,
I knew you were cruel.
Sixth period.

If you didn’t think I was doomed,
I knew you were wrong.
Seventh period.

If you didn’t think I was funny,
I knew you were catching on.
You’d get it someday.

I am still laughing at myself.
I have never been so alone.



​
​Angel Rosen (she/her) is a queer poet living near Pgh, PA. She spends her time at open mics, attending drag shows, and organizing her thoughts into lists. She loves friendship, lesbianism, and Diet Coke. She is the winner of the 2025 Maureen Seaton Poetry Prize. More at angelrosen.com