insomniac.

It's midnight morning in my bedroom and my sheets have yet to be encountered. I tell myself that sleep doesn't matter, it's one of those optional vitamins that will make you feel good, but you can also do without as long as you make healthy choices. I ignore the fact that healthy choices aren't always my specialty, seeing as I spent a good portion of this past year trying to breathe in every word you spoke to me.

Between the washer and my alarm clock, I can't tell who is getting the last say. It's like they're arguing about how things should be done. The clock says constant and steady, while the washing machine is screaming unorganized and inconsistent. I wish this didn't reflect us because everyone knows it's much easier to fix a clock than a washing machine.

Insomnia was always there, behind the folds of my eyelids, waiting to catch sleep when I needed it most. I never really noticed it until the day you came to school with purple circles under both acid green eyes. I told you that you should get some sleep, that you looked terrible. You only looked at me and said, "Well you look worse." It was then that I noticed the headaches and the deprivation hangovers, the paleness in my skin and the sick look in the way I moved my body.

It's past midnight in my bedroom and my pillow has yet to be depended on. I try to convince myself that you're staring into the inky black sky, searching for the pocketfuls of light we call stars too. But somehow I know you'll be getting some sleep tonight. You never needed me as much as I needed you.

I'm not even a victim of chronic heartbreak, it just looks like I am.