Tag Archives: sleep

Mirage

Alright. Alright.

Let’s keep it simple. Let’s dissolve the convoluted hyperboles with a dose of sedating fentanyl and simply look the problem straight in its eyes.

Blue.

Not just pastel or skylight or marine or brilliant or midnight or cobalt or baby blue, no. But the kind of blue that makes any other shade of blue look lifelessly grey. The kind of blue you left me with watery gazes and sinkholes, when you left your thoughts to fester unstoppably in mine. The very kind of blue I never thought I’d hate to love.

Until now.

Sometimes, it faintly tastes of the tranquil oceanic breeze, and I could rest easy by the lonely bayside as I let my wandering thoughts ponder cautiously. Tiptoes clumsily traipsing against curious hope and lukewarm sand, fallen horizons blushing a pallid sunset orange, caught smiling unaware whenever I chance upon the nuanced way you adored every delicate brushstroke on the canvas I painstakingly laid out for you; an artist cursed to draw the same portrait forever.

Sweet. Bitter. Nothing.

Sometimes, it’s destructive blizzards all at once; mental violence haphazardly spitting ammunition directly into my targeted chest, turning me into a tattered tapestry of miserable fury—barely fit to be called human. My mind wails and shrieks as it rakes its bladed nails down my spine, coming undone at the uncontrollable paranoia that the very same paintings which brought your attention to my existence would now cause you to draw loathing deep into my skin; an artist blessed to despise their own creations forever.

Tantrums. Bloody. Everything.

My convictions are constantly wavering, my tessellated identity shattering into stagnant fractals if I even so much shed a sliver of you off of my armour, and the overgrown thorns that once quietly infected my lungs sting a whole lot worse when I try to pull them out. So I lie between my gritted chemical teeth and pretend it’s for the best, but no amount of feigned reassurance will ever quell the tormented pangs writhing inside of me, wrenching badly-stitched arteries apart again and crushing my fragile bones to silver dust. Irreparable.

Useless. Helpless. Hopeless.

And still, that blue—god, that damned kind of blue—so vividly engraved behind my closed eyelids like a restless epitaph. Keeping me wide awake and screaming silently in the cramped jail cell I call my home as it softly lulls me off into perpetual sleep. Far away from the echoes of the observable universe, and everyone else, and nothing else. Your inimitable shade of blue.

The kind I hate I love.

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Fluorescence

Let’s spill into my bedroom and leave the lock open

I want your neon bones to glow against mine

You’re the only mess I won’t hide away in my closet

You’re the reason I always oversleep every night

.

My mind’s getting stretched out into a thin veil

So much so, that you could see through my thoughts

Is it immodest, love? Is it too vulgar to even care?

You said you’ll be a martyr but you don’t believe in God

.

Exposed to the acrid winter, still shrinking and shivering

I’d find it abhorrent if I wasn’t the one lost to a blizzard

Crawling for your warmth, your doors were never open

Would you leave it ajar for me, or leave all the lights shut?

.

But I won’t be the letdown that you’ll stand on and fall

And I just never know myself like I knew you at all

This chemical decadence is rotting my plastic heart

Convulsing my fragile veins as it’s tearing me apart

.

But I’ll spill into your bedroom even when it’s locked

I need your neon bones to extinguish against mine

You’re the mess I love to count when I’m not feeling tired

And the only reason I oversleep just to wake up every night.

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deliria nervosa

mass hysteria,

melting down into

a million jagged

pieces—of pure

nonsense and

plastic panic

philosophical

diatribes taken like

placebo medicine

lost in a wreck

unopened letters

hanging by a thread

shivering hands

no longer sane

reaching still for

the final claim

so find out before

time inches

forward, a sharp

blade straight down

the left lung,

searching for a

cavity that’s about

to detonate

from cortisol and

mad serotonin

blown out of

proportion, mixing

in confusion but

finding no answer

next to liars and

cancer; euphoria?

pure mania? take your

colours, it’s over

it’s over, the deed

has been done

the consequences

hold the lock, the

key is missing now

and the demons

have been unleashed…

calm your mind

from bad decisions

anxiety’s grasp

will suffocate you

like it did—

like it does and

it will—but please

just keep it down and

let the concrete set

before you sleep

on another pile of

instant regrets.

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…and skyward, to come home.

save my

sensibility

the wrongness

of being right,

ludicrous—

mothballs taper

off to fixtures

on the wall;

your portraits

five. nine. nine.

not knowing

the date and place

but persisting to

hitch a hearse

for the winners

and you sleep

and you slept…

cheek to the gutters

like rainwater and

dry ice melting

but the puddles are

still far too cold

to be touched

with bare hands

.

your malevolence

my destiny

a love, chased

down with laudanum

and bitter spirits

starving for fire

not mine, no—

but angels won’t

exist just to see us

fall away and die,

and if i do so

let it be beside you

and these memories

of springtime

and soft sadness

discoloured fingernails

pointing to the sun

sending wishes

holding on tightly

never there?

never where—

not the awful thought

of losing you out

to another bore

.

when i’ve got

good stories to tell

and a bad heart

to prove innocent

hear me out, please

your music speaks

in earthquakes

and perfect fifths

though abstract

the ends may seem

myopic gaze

did you lose sight?

so save my sorry

humanity and

your flesh betwixt

mine again

for countdowns

don’t matter if

time doesn’t

make amends, when

you’ll be just fine

i know—but then

what am i?

what am i now?

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Rogue

A subtle system, breaking melodies
Craving bullets from her gun
So I tripped, stayed, follow every word
Little spirals in their eyes…

~*~

scarlet bliss

worries fainting

seize my heart

cold in bad weather

.

scarlet bliss

worries falling

sedate my heart

cold in grey colours

.

scarlet bliss

worries finding

separate my heart

cold but not better

.

scarlet bliss

worries fading

sleep well, my heart

cold in your aether.

~*~

Catch a lover
Turn an enemy
Just to watch them
Burn alive…

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butterscotch

you were in my dreams last night.

it was barely for five minutes, and yet

you still made my insides twist into

a quiet, nervous, childish smile—

when i woke up, i found i had a flurry

of butterfly dust dazing my thoughts

and bitter nectar on my tongue where

your dulcet nickname used to be.

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29 – january candy canes

go ahead and raise up that scarlet umbrella

to fight against acerbic deception and winds

and sing me as song as fragile as the moon

.

of idyllic interludes of a thumping piano

decadent as the afterthought of samsara

but not quite as disenchanting as a eulogy

.

and frailer flavours of icy mint and failure

mingling with petrichor and soft lemongrass

so provoke my lullabies, while you still can

.

for soon, i’ll lose the ability to fall asleep

and when the weather turns cold like this

the rain shall only be another dying wish.

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23 – a lukewarm 4 a.m. shower (isn’t as bad as it sounds)

i hope i can wash it all out.

.

all the exhaustion and instability

the throat i screamed ragged

and my eyes drowning in red water

.

the hellish nightmares creeping into

the darkness when i forgot to turn on the light

.

when i was too tired to stand up

and make a better mess of myself

because no one else could do that for me

.

not the phone calls i’m avoiding

not the close friends i barely know anymore

not the faceless comfort typing on their

tiny glowing screens always telling me

.

i’ll be fucking alright, because i won’t

.

be there for them. instead, i’ll be sitting

in the middle of a cold-tiled floor, still trying

to wake myself up enough to breathe.

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19 – raw insomnia

33 hours

fueled only by

bad fanfiction

vaporwave and

other aesthetic

driven-insanity

and sedentary

motivations

must work on

must strum until

fingers bleed,

must be fucking

useful right now—

.

34 hours

building on

paper bags and

bad decisions

and vitriol with

well-needed friends

coming to an end

still writing, still

spitting out ideas,

still trying to drain

myself out of every

last drop of dopamine,

oh, i’m so fucking

useless right now—

.

38 hours

and still going on…

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17 – urge

today, he woke up after four hours of a very restless sleep, his cold bones craving madly with the overpowering desire to simply cease existing.

it wasn’t his usual run-of-the-mill panic attack or anything he could handle. it felt…different, somehow. more threatening. more accessible. more tangible.

it felt strange as hell to him, and considering that his main thoughts consisted of daily morbid jokes about demise, that was already saying a lot. all he wanted to do then was to go back to sleep, but every time he shut his eyes, he could vividly envision his own warm blood liberally pouring out of his arms and spilling all over his bedsheets, dripping from the edges of his stained white pillows, and finally pooling all over the floor, where it patiently awaited for someone else to stumble and get hurt on it.

it felt real. it was almost too real. he wanted it to be real. this time, this time, this time

he was so tired and confused; still muddled by the coalescing haze of heavy medication and sleep deprivation. he didn’t know what to do anymore. he wanted to physically call out for help, to chat up a casual friend and tell them about everything that’s running on his mind, or perhaps to dial his estranged parent’s number and finally confess that he couldn’t take it anymore; anything but keeping it to himself again. this was dangerous. he’s in danger. he should save himself.

but he didn’t do any of those. he couldn’t. after all this time, he still could fucking not.

so instead, he gave way to asinine distractions and a different kind of pain to bide him by, hoping that what he was doing is going to be enough; waiting, waiting, waiting.

it’s been eight hours since he first woke up. he’s still all alone and staring dully at the darkened walls of his bedroom, and the immense hunger is carving his protesting flesh into a sculpted gauntness, but he doesn’t dare move. he barely even dares to breathe.

now, he’s calmed down considerably—but not in the way he should have been. he’s too calm. he shouldn’t be this calm.

and it scares him.

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