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My mind is closed shut with words carrying cinder blocks.
They strangle my brain until they cut off its oxygen supply.
How can my mind still feel this awake when I swear it was dead?
It's not dead, it's warped.
There's a scratch in the CD of my thoughts; words run together and repeat themselves.
I can feel my mind closing in on itself as static fills the empty spaces.
I can feel footsteps pacing my skull.
They're heavy and I think it's cracking.
I think I'm cracking. I think the facade is cracking.
You can see it. I look frail. Fair and fragile skin, easily marked.
A hint of blue from the sickly fluids that flush through my veins.
My eyes are hollowed out from the vastness that is the insomniac's night.
I shut them for only a second, but bright flashes of white light dance across the screens that are the inside of my eyelids.
So I get up and splash cold water against my face and cradle it in my hands.
My palms feel clammy but fit like stacked spoons into the curves of my cheeks.
I keep my hands clutching the skin on my face, knowing that I will stay up waiting, pouring out tears as my left and right brain tackle each other to stay awake.
Because I've forgotten the sound the front door makes when a father walks through.
And I long to stay awake to hear it, just one more time.
But it never comes.