I get my daughter to bed at a very decent time. Exhausted to the point where I'll drop like a dime, I lay in bed.
I toss and I turn in an abyss of pillows and sheets. I can't get comfortable, I can't go to sleep, not with this feeling of paranoia that's too deep.
My blanket is a bear made of cotton, and he's squeezing me too tight. I wrestle with this too familliar animal all night.
I sit and listen to the deafening sound of silence, because of the sweet, sweet nature of my dear mind's defiance.
You see, I've suffered for a long time with nightmares of sociopathic hellraisers. And when I first told my mother, it didn't even phase her.
The real fun is when I go to sleep. Where these nightmares prance around like dancing black sheep.
The best one was when I ate my own flesh. Harsh runching. Warm oozing. And the taste?
Well, I woke up before the rest.
And then suddenly, I hear a blood curdling scream. It's my eyes pounding on my lids, scratching to be free.
I get out of my bed, and I pace the floor. I look out the windows, and I lock all the doors.
It's 3 am, I slept for 2 solid hours. Now I have burning indigestion that's sour. I sit up and I stare at the wall. Suddenly, I'm not tired at all.
I get out of bed and I pace the floor. I look out the windows and I lock all the doors.
I lay back down, a few more hours go by. I hear a noise outside, and I hide.
"Breathe, you're not going to die."
Then I get out of bed, and pace the floors. I look out the windows, and lock all the doors.
The sun is rising now and trying to sleep isn't as rough... but even the sunlight isn't enough.
So I paced the floor. I looked out the window, and I locked all the doors, hopefully for the last time.
About the Creator
Kendra P.
A poet, who's self is revealed within my work.
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