Slip

I wake to itchy eyelids made of lead,
the soft gray sheets encasing,
eerily fingerlike with their grip,
the warm curvature of the mattress a sinister sea of quicksand,
and when I force my tired feet to the cold, rigid floor,
I slip into the day like a starched straight jacket,
every obligation a crushing compression,
each movement a quickening constriction,
sucking the pyrrhic air out of my chest cavity,
squeezing at my brittle bones