It’s after 3am. I can’t sleep. I’m not even trying. I’m worrying, you know, of all the stupid shit I’ve done and not the ramifications of anything but my own self-worth. These late lonely nights are always tinged with regret, aren’t they? And sadness?
I don’t act sad anymore. I wear my new-found happiness like jewels.
So what. My bed is a warm cocoon.
To tell you the truth, I am all alone and wondering why I let him in my bed last week. I would rather not let him in at all then have these few impassioned nights that leave me emotionally and physically drained. I meant to say just physically. I don’t let anyone know where I emotionally stand anymore. I try not to be stupid. I don’t act sad anymore.
The last time I stood my ground emotionally, he walked. I walked, too. It all felt queerly symmetrical, the exit consistent, the blame escalating into a stalemate. But he walked first, you know?
It all leaves me, and I do mean leaves me, feeling frustrated and vacant.
Vacant — that’s a lie. The city is churning and heaving and masses of people spill out around you quick, like a middle school diorama of real life that’s been dumped on you, little paper buildings and even smaller paper people fluttering through your fingers.
It’s enough, I tell myself, to stay awake all night, hanging onto your pillow, breathing in the white noise hum alone.