Insomnia

And you...

I can’t close my eyes.
You haunt me like a ghost,
wrapping yourself around my thoughts—
you took over my territory,
paying no rent,
never telling me how long you’re staying.

From my nervous system straight into my left ventricle,
you strike.
I don’t feel like myself.
I don’t recognize this body,
or the mind living inside it.

You pushed my soul out
and moved in as the new tenant.
I’ve become a shell-less snail
with nowhere to go.

When I’m conscious, I think of you.
When I’m barely conscious, I still think of you.
My antidepressants are running low,
my sleeping pills can’t restrain my will.

I’m like a wandering spirit at night,
aimless,
except for you.

The GPS says: turn left in one kilometer.
I’m a robot being driven by the car,
and it seems to know my destination
better than I do.

My body feels like only the eyes can move—
everything else is just you.
What did I eat?
What did I drink?
Did I lock the door when I got home?
Did I turn off the light after showering?
Did I put the laundry in the machine?
Did I feed the dogs?
Did I finish tomorrow’s report?
Is the alarm set?
Did I buy the new jeans?
Did I write the Christmas shopping list?
Did I cut my hair?

Lack of sleep.
Excessive excitement.
Yet nothing looks unusual on the outside.

My mind is the only thing fully awake—
I shut my eyes,
and two hours later I’m awake again.
Cold air hits me.
The room is pitch black.
Is this waking,
or another parallel reality?

Increasing the dosage of sleeping pills
feels like slow suicide.
The anti-anxiety meds
will have to stay with me a little longer.

I know I’ll be okay.

But right now I’m standing inside
an F4 tornado of pressure.
Your impact was too sudden,
too strong.
I can’t think straight—
I’m just a puppet you pull along.

I know your GPS
won’t lead me somewhere dangerous,
but I won’t be fully conscious for a while.
So please,
keep an eye on me.

So… good night.