POETRY

When She Rests Her Head on the Pillow Every Night

Extracts from an insomniac’s diary

Photo by C Technical from Pexels

2 a.m., it’s time,
wrap up your day, my love.

Riding the high, waiting,
waiting for it to shut off my mind.
Could there be a button for it?
Or maybe one called sleep.

The mill churns out memories,
flashbacks of my war.

Could I call it one, though?
When it’s only in my head.

Crooked wrinkles and
creased fine lines,
Let them all out, let it out,
the murmurs of the night.

3 a.m., it’s time,
close your eyes and keep ’em closed.

Take long breaths,
not short jagged ones.
A choke on my throat,
invisible hands tightens their grip.

The reign of fear,
it’s now and forever.

Pour more anxiety, panic, and doubt,
Yet the beast refuses to be full.

4 a.m., the countdown begins,
Can I sleep now, or in an hour?
Can I sleep at all?

The river of pain runs deep,
dried up tears fall short.
Spreading throughout my body,
filling up all the nooks and crevices.

Am I enough?
For tomorrow, for my life?
Can it ever be enough?

Searching for meaning, for closure,
an end, or maybe just a beginning.

A bird's urgent call,
a car door closing,
Footsteps above my head,
the grinding of the night.

A miracle when awake,
a horror movie in the dark.

5 a.m., it's time,
open-close, open-close.

Darkness welcomes light,
and the many me’s inside me awaken.
Are you okay she asks?
No, and yes.

Can we deal with this tomorrow?
Yes, no new thoughts tonight.

6 a.m., it’s almost morning,
the roulette spins again.

For 27 years, I lived somebody else’s life. Now reclaiming what is rightfully mine, one story at a time. Support me: https://ko-fi.com/debduttapal90

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