#tw self hate

Some nights are easy; some nights, I listen to my meditation apps, feel my pulse settle down quietly for the night, and my heartbeat sounds like a melody. The darkness is safe, a warm blanket, I know the moon is watching over me, and the thought of tomorrow is more promise than a threat. Some nights are so beautifully easy;

some nights, though, I stare at the wall for three hours without realizing that I am still awake. I hover between states of consciousness, and I do not know where one begins and the other ends. My blood turns to lead, and my pulse feels like a cruel punishment for something I can’t remember doing. Some nights are easy, but then there are the nights that I feel like a visitor in my own body, the one that takes up too much space for this world, as though I do not belong here, and I am only biding my time until I am asked to leave.

I want so badly to leave, but the doors are locked, the windows painted shut. I can see the moon, but even she is no longer listening, tired of hearing my pleas for the sixth night in a row. I know that tomorrow will come, the sun will rise again, but what does that mean when it feels like a punishment?

I hope there are better nights to come by (ds)