Un-sleepful

Un-sleepful. Adjective meaning not full of sleep. This is how I spend most of my days and nights now. I wake up in the morning, un-refreshed and ruffled, the bags under my eyes carrying the weight of the world, like fluffy pillows filled with blue cotton-candy fiberglass insulation.

I lay back and close my eyes, alone in my twin sized bed. Spread across my eyelids is an electric fireworks display as I try to silence my mind. I roll to my right to shake the bursts of color and energy away and bury my head into the comforter. I squeeze my eyelids shut now to bring on full darkness, but, as soon as I release, the illuminated night flashes again, breaking the silence. Throughout the night, I toss back and forth like a dingy in the middle of a hurricane. The thoughts that swim during these turbulent, restless times pull me under and hold me down, struggling without relief. I think about those people who have really changed me, the guys who drove a spike through my being, causing my heart to splinter and crack. I scrape through the list, the newest one being the most efficient at breaking me. This man is one whom I once thought of as “the one” a lifetime ago it seems, though I never told him and gave up on completely as another case of unrequited love. And I did move on, remembering him only as a part of my experiences. This time would be different, I thought, as we had both matured since that moment in history. Alas, I was wrong and can never forget this mistake. I think about the promises we both made, about wanting to be together, about the serendipity of love, about truth and trust, about a sense of destiny, all forgotten now, like a faded photograph stashed in the bottom of a suitcase. To have closure on a situation or an actual end is soothing, because then there can be something new built upon the remains. But when someone I really believed in, whom I wanted and pursued in an uncommon (for me) sense of mutual understanding and desire, ignores me as a means to an end, there is something so unshakable about it. I never saw it coming, not this time. He seemed genuine. He seemed sure of his feelings and intent. He actually made me believe in it. Was I not worth that last goodbye? How does one go from such a powerful idea to leaving it as a pile of shit of the floor, meant for someone else to clean up? My heart was ripped so suddenly from my chest that I cannot elude this emptiness. My ribs quiver and reach out for something to hold on to, to protect, to keep safe. The stagnant air left beneath my sternum reeks of deception, devastation, and despair. No one ever made such a promise to me so big, and the result is a gaping wound. The thought of his face haunts me with regret. I wake up, looking and feeling like a wounded chicken after a vicious cockfight, my body heavy and sore, my thoughts hollow and sullen, my heart: missing.

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