April 16, 2007

Do Not Resuscitate

Life is like a foreign language, and we all mispronounce it.


It's roughly 4 in the morning, and the night has long since arrived. I'm so tired I could fall asleep standing, but my mind is working on overload and sleep seems impossible. I just got out of the shower, with all hopes of it clearing my mind gone.
I scrubbed my skin red and sore, and I scolded myself with hot water.
I came out just the same.

I always dread the nights. I can't stand the thoughts that come sneaking up on me and that hollow feeling that grows in volumes in my chest. Most of all, I hate the fact that the second I close my eyes, it all multiplies tenfold. If I sit perfectly still, I can hear the knot in my stomach getting tighter by the minute.
Peaceful sleep seems like such a foreign concept these days.

As I pick on my symmetrical scabs, I wonder when my mind got corrupted and at what time my body decided to follow. I think of which face I'll put on when the morning finally comes and what clever lines I'll spew out with a wry grin.

I won't ever let them see me with my guard down.

Life is like an intricate oprah, and no one hits the notes.






Posted on 04/16/2007 3:52 PM Comments (14)
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