deprimido

I lie in bed. This makes eight nights; still sleep evades me. The previous seven nights are as a fragmented mirror, swept together and discarded in a wastebin. My eyes hurt from fatigue so I close them. The darkness reflects my shattered psyche. It never sleeps. The brokenness inspires something feral, something egomaniacal. No man's eyes are content closing when others remain open around them. Sometimes they are quiet; one or two of them are asleep but the rest are awake, watching. This makes eight nights of fighting to breathe. The only sounds are my shallow pulls of air and their blinking; their dragonfly wing eyelids flapping, slapping to