Deprived

I am to the point where my dark circles hang off my face like bags that cradle all of the hours I didn’t sleep last night. My red eyes reflect the florescent number on my alarm clock banging every morn. Bright and early. Rain or shine. Mocking me. Cackling at my weary bones. My muscles whine. Every step, every lunge, every time I pull my sweater up from over my head my muscles whine because they are weak. They get no rest. They continue throwing fits of spasms into my feet. There is no saving grace. As badly as my eyes want to close, my lids are tacked open and ready to watch the lonely night’s play, regardless of how barren it often is. The caffeine addiction has so little to do with it. My jittery fingers don’t know where to point. My sprint is falling into slow motion and I am drowning into 3 A.M.s with no lifeguard who’s willing to lull me to sleep. Counting sheep leads to counting tiles, then stars, then friends who still talk to me, and why did she stop talking to me, and maybe that’s why I didn’t go to prom, and she was a bitch, and he crushed my heart, and why didn’t I eat that fucking piece of cake, and yes, I do love you, but why can’t I sleep? I am left staring out the window into a black emptiness that matches the vivacity of my cavernous skull. It is two in the morning and my fingertips are bruised from anxious biting. I am cold and I am concerned and I crave the simplicity of my own eyelids relaxing just enough to fall over my eyes until my alarm clock can again revive me.

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