It's 7 a.m. and I still haven't slept.
Maybe it was because of the game.
Or maybe it was because I can't sleep when my thoughts are screaming at me.
You told me to go to bed before 4. I wanted to. Believe me. I truly did.
But I couldn't. And I didn't.
I asked if you were mad.
You said no, instead you told me you were disappointed.
I cried.
-
Call me what you want, but that **** hits the heart.
I'm sorry I didn't sleep. That pain in your voice kills me.
And I'm afraid of death.
That's why the voices do that.
They mimic your soothing voice and turn it into my worst nightmare.
I use you as a cleanser.
Instead, they use your blood to get the counter *****.
-
No.
I'm sorry I can't sleep.
I'm sorry I'm a disappointment.
I'm sorry I'm so bad with words that I can't just tell you what's wrong.
Because I'm afraid that if I do you'll leave me.
I'm afraid to be alone.
Because when I'm alone, I think.
When I think, they appear.
Because they want to prove that I'm not alone.
So instead they show me pretty pictures of you standing there.
With the skin on your arms peeled back.
And your eyes crying blood.
Your hands outstretched with dried blood crusted down to your elbow.
-
I know.
It's just my imagination, right?
Those voices.
Those images.
They are just my imagination.
The worst part of my imagination.
-
I'm afraid.
Because I can't tell reality from my own world.
For me, both blur together.
I'm not sure what others see.
But I don't want them to see through my eyes.
Because these eyes never close.
Afterall, it's now 7:23 and I am still here, typing away. While you count sheep, I count pages of pathetic poems.