Insomnia
Three days without sleep is enough to drive one mad.
Tossing and turning between sweat-dampened sheets.
The moonlit darkness peering through your window pane.
Feeling your abdomen crunch.
As your diaphragm flexes.
Only to issue out a raspy cough from a swollen throat.
It hurts to swallow.
So you lay on your side.
And stare blankly at the shadowed wall.
As your warm saliva dabbles onto your pillow.
The veins in your head.
Pulsing with restless thought.
Behind your bloodshot eyes framed with the dark rings of sleep depravation.
You let your left hand drop to the cold tile below your bed.
Loosely attaching onto the first thing it touches.
On the a frigid floor plastered with your personal belongings.
A red ball-point pen.
The one that your ex-lover used to scrape out her pipe with.
Subconsciously you start chewing on it.
Still staring at that shadowed wall.
Where the haunted face of Kurt Cobain stares back at you.
You gnaw harder.
Intensely gazing into the pit of darkness called night.
Jagged pieces of plastic caught in your teeth.
Muscles tensing.
Left hand gripping tightly onto that red pen.
White knuckle.
Toes curling.
Neck straining.
A cold thick substance runs down your face.
That was not your warm saliva.
That was not the ink on from your ex-lover’s pen.
It was your blood.
Chilled upon another restless night of Insomnia.
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