Take a Red Eye Home

A sigh.
My ever constant companion.

I need no one to tell me that I've begun to lose sight of things. I mutter and stutter and shuffle through the day, asking only for a blank thought. They're red and swollen but they stay open because I ask them to. I convince my eyes to keep sight of nothing important all through the night. I don't need a lit candle or a vent y chai but I keep them anyway. They rest by my hands as I flex my thoughts. Now, all I need is to sleep but sleep won't visit. That devil departed from me long ago. I occasionally sneak in through the window of a tranquilizer's house, leaving my coat and hat on the floor and stretching my frame across open field of silk sheets. All I want is to twist and curl and turn in on myself, drenching my own gray matter with honey and milk. As I finish my taught relaxation techniques, I shiver and wring my hands until they're numb.... ten more hours to go...

I blink. Once.

The moniter layers rant after rant, sinking into my head whether I like it or not. I'm stoic as I hear a tranny give a recipe for Mormon cookies, thinking of gorging myself on cookie dough. I imagine it coating my body in fat, which immediately makes me want to sear my skin and listen to and watch the fat bubble, sizzle, and slip off. I will myself to feel the pain but arrive at the station without. I'm still standing, though I teeter for a moment. Tracing bumps and bruises on my neck and arms... paint sploches, running with black and green. Flex my jaw and shake it off, like a wet dog, spraying the sky with drops of water.

The light fades, then sparks, leaving me blind. I listen for any familiar footsteps, fading and falling away. Friends and coinhabitants burry their faces in their pillows and shift their weight. My skin buzzes with friction. The day's events come rushing back...

Wake up, turn over, wake up, turn over, wake up... everytime I glimpse the glowing red digits that remind me how easy it is to fail, I choke back a bitter taste. I have a desire to watch my favorite political pundits wash away the day, but I turn over again and slide my legs to a different position under the blanket. The rest of the day no longer matters. Period.

Here I stood, Here I fell,
Wasted time in my own Hell.
Encased in dirt, mud, and clay,
Here I lay, Here I stay.