Insomnia's Lullaby
Midnight stretches thin— a frayed ribbon of hours I can’t tie back together.
The ceiling fan counts my sins in slow, looping circles, while the moon bleeds light through blinds I should’ve fixed last year.
Pillows grow teeth. Sheets twist like accusations. Every clock tick carves deeper into the hollow where rest should be.
I bargain with the dark: "One more scroll, then sleep." "Just till the next car passes." "If I count my breaths to 100—"
But 3 AM doesn’t negotiate. It yawns wide as a courtroom, judging all the things I didn’t do, the words I shouldn’t have said, the life I’m too tired to live tomorrow.
Dawn comes anyway— unwanted, unearned— pasting its gold lie over my exhaustion. I’ll wear the day like a borrowed coat, pretending I can’t feel the weight of all the sleep I owe myself piling up inside my bones.
(Goodnight, goodnight, oh nevermind— the sun’s here to mock me awake again.)
