When you can't sleep: think. feel.
|I lie on My bed, flat out. In a white tank top and black sports shorts, both of which are too large for me anyway. It's dark. I lie on my back, stare up into the blackness that is actually the panels of wood laying the ground for my sister's upper bunk, above me. The glow-in-the-dark stickers the shape of satellites, moons and stars that I must've taped to the panels at least 9 years ago; they don't glow anymore.
Music plays from the speakers that I plug my red-cased iPod nano into every night. My eyes adjust to the dark. An outline of everything in the room.
The tables cluttered with notes over a year old. The scarves hanging over the frame of the bunk swaying, still, swaying, then still again. Every single object in the room comes to attention.
Shut up, Katy Perry, I don't care if you kissed a girl and liked it.
I turn on my side, intending to skip this sadly very catchy track, but it's over anyway.
Stay on my side, curled up into a ball.
Feel my left shoulder blade, left elbow, left wrist, the curve of my right waist, the bone of my left hip, the outside of my entire left leg from my thigh to my calf to my tiny toe, feel it all sink into the mattress, like a surrender of sorts (fatigue, perhaps?), in want and need of comfort.
Listen to my own breathing against the soundtrack from Death Note, the anime.
No one to left or to right of me.
No one to have to hold or to hold me.
Copeland: everybody knows that you break your neck to keep your chin up