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A Secret

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.
Easily bruised.
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.



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