I stay up late
And f*** myself up.
Headphones digging into my ears
Drying hair falling around my face
Eyes glazing over at the screen too close
For my own good—it’s a
Nighttime
Thing.
Only those of us who live by the quiet blackness
Of night
Can understand.
Time is silent and divine
In the wee hours of the morning;
It smells, too, like
Sweet shampoo and the utter warmth
Of a laid-in bed
Human smell
That’s neither good nor bad
Just raw.
These nights are my precious time away
From myself
Hours where I can dream and think and let my head
Throb
Without having to worry about anyone else caring.
Endless swirls of fears and
Knuckle-numbing ideas
Materialize in my early-morning brain
Confusing the f*** out of me.
I
Can’t help but wonder
When
I’m going to hit the brake.