when I don’t sleep I go all out of my mind, like stagnant panic. I trick myself by counting ghost hours, but I’m always all awake and not knowing it, forgetting I woke up to check the time, the blinking digital numbers like some sort of mechanical Monet. the words come into my head all wrong and I can’t comb them the right way, and then madness seeps into the marrow of my bones, all wrong, arthritic.
I drank wine every night this week; it didn’t feel like I was alive and I liked it way too much. my grandfather used to carry whiskey in his glass every evening, sharp stained breath I remember so well. I drink my blood and wake up all hours of the night, chasing words in rem sleep, tumbling over half sentences and poetry that I forget in the morning sun.
© Alexandra Jema