Do You Sleep?

Do you sleep?
I mean at night when you're supposed to,
not during the middle of the afternoon
when you're not supposed to be
hiding from the world,
curled up in the fetal position,
covers pulled up over your head,
cursing your cats
who are walking around the apartment meowing,
looking for you
because it's the middle of the day
when you're supposed to be up
doing chores,
crocheting,
reading,
petting them,
singing to songs on your Echo,
writing shitty poems no one wants to read.
Do you sleep?
I mean the mirtazapine is supposed to help
but mostly it makes me hungry
so I get up and eat Fruity Pebbles at 1:00 a.m.
No, I devour them
like it's the first food
I've had since Monday and today is Friday, I think.
I'm not sure because my days all run together now,
an awful run-on sentence,
my life sentence without  the possibility of parole.
Do you sleep?
Soundly?
I'm jealous.
The prazosin is supposed to help keep the nightmares away
but I still see elephants
with pink stripes on their trunks
and daisies on their ears,
which is kind of like a nightmare
if they are stampeding right over you
while you're pushing
a little old lady in a wheelchair
through the plains of Africa at dusk.
Why won't my mind rest?
Is it punishment for something I've done
or haven't done that I should have?
Should.
I know, I know,
should is a forbidden word,
a no-no.
My therapist will gently remind me of that
every time it leaps from my lips.
But sometimes I disagree.
I should be able to get a god night's sleep.
Do you sleep?
Be thankful.