my head hurts
constantly
my eyelids are pulled back—
let me be awake.

stop the tug-of-war,
the short sentences
the silence.

the woman next door told me all I had to do was keep breathing
(I wonder what she’s on).
sometimes The Girls talk about it
in a coffee shop,
or under the pretense of a book club.
they tell lots of other stories,
but I always seem to forget them.

the pounding in the night is just the ghosts in your head;
you see, I’ve tricked myself into believing that I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.
it’s a nice lie to live by,
so it’s okay, you can let me have my blind spot—
everyone needs a little character.

even though the machine is falling from the sky,
all the parts are still working.
I saw it on TV, so it must be true (and let me tell you,
the weather we’ve been having here makes me want to curl into a ball
and sleep in my mother’s driveway)

“she’s back!”
I want to hear them scream,
“she’s back!”
but it’s a little late to remove the earplugs.
maybe I just haven’t been listening
at least everything makes more sense that way.

look, I’m tired, I’m hell-bent on distraction, and I keep  losing my train of thought.
I don’t know; just tell me what it means.
Just tell me that it means something
because I’m out of options.
the toaster won’t turn on, the kettle stopped boiling water, when I try to sing I simply croak
like I’m full of slowly hardening cement,
and the kids who opened their windows
to feel the night on their skin are leaving hand prints and initials.
what is wrong with the picture?
(it’s not candid. it’s not candid, so take it again)

why do people have to be so picky?