Light, Death, and a Reason to Write

The night ends faster than we realize. Sleepless nights contain our thoughts tucked away to fester in boxes, some with markings of familiar colors, or some with the unknown written in our very own handwriting.  My father used to work in the post office when I was a fledgling child just starting to expand her wings into a vastly terrifying world. He would bring home from time to time, small bleached labels which I'd then promptly chew on to experience the salivation on a chewy texture. Perhaps now I'm too old to sink my teeth into one of those now that I know what their intended purpose is. The wisdom teeth replace baby teeth as does knowledge replace innocence. When it's 5 am and the body aches with the strain of every day life, the sky is gray. The birds refuse to chirp. And you and the world seem dead. The night is almost finished but you can't hold out to reach for that golden sunlight ahead with your stubby fingers and squat hands which can barely reach the simplest objects. I still don't know if it was my tiredness, or all of the Zolaft that made me sleep that night, a deeper and darker sleep than I had ever had the pleasure of knowing. But it was almost day and I knew I just knew it, that waking up awaited me. So more pills. But it wasn't enough. We kept grabbing. And the fight for survival and solace through metaphors and similes  records itself on paper, computers and smartphones, but most importantly, in my mind.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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