Insomnia

Lie awake
I sleep awake
I go to bed with all my lights turned on
So I don't slip away
I stay awake

I don't sleep. Not really. I lie in bed at night begging for sleep. Making deals with demons and angels alike just for some peace and quiet. Because during the day it's never quiet enough. The whispers that it's not enough, that it's too much, that I'll never be. Sometimes the whispers are a hurricane that tangle you up and stop your screams in your mouth and tear your hair through your eyes. The hurricane-whispers pull you up, and down, and side to side, and in every direction at once. But there's nothing you can do because the hurricane-whipsers have stopped your screams in your mouth, they push back down your throat so you can't call out. When you feel that you can't take it anymore, they're gone. Like they weren't even there in the first place. And you have to clean up the mess, but it's so hard to do, because your hands are shaking too much, you can't get your breath back because all of the screams are still in your throat, and you know that the whispers will come back to you. But sometimes the whispers are quiet. They float down around you feather soft, so soft that you couldn't hear them unless you were trying to. Which you're not. You're always trying to block out the whispers. So the whispers float down. They might brush up against your skin, soft as a snowflake, that's when you notice. They've piled up around your feet and are ever piling higher. Until you can't move. The whisperfeathersnowflakes are burrying you and you didn't notice until it was too late. But how could you? If you listened to every whisper you would go mad. So you don't know which are the ones that are dangerous. These are the daytime whispers. The hurricanewhispers and the whisperfeathersnowflakes. These are manageable. It's the whispers in the night, that come to you in the dark, these are the dangerous whispers. They speak of the words you try to forget during the day. But alone in the dark you can't. They swallow you whole, and envelop your body. They snake their way across your skin, looking for some weakness, some imperfection, a soft spot to pierce through. The whispers creep under your skin. Piercing through to the surface with their thorns, and rooting down into your viens. The flowers that bloom are the lies you tell yourself in the morning. 

So I don't sleep. Not really. The whispers are there, always.The whispers.

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