When She Rests Her Head on the Pillow Every Night

2 a.m., it’s time,

wrap up your day, my love.

Riding the high, waiting,

waiting for it to shut off my mind.

Could there be a button for it?

Or maybe one called sleep.

The mill churns out memories,

flashbacks of my war.

Could I call it one, though?

When it’s only in my head.

Crooked wrinkles and

creased fine lines,

Let them all out, let it out,

the murmurs of the night.

3 a.m., it’s time,

close your eyes and keep ’em closed.

Take long breaths,

not short jagged ones.

A choke on my throat,

invisible hands tighten their grip.

The reign of fear,

it’s now and forever.

Pour more anxiety, panic, and doubt,

Yet the beast refuses to be full.

4 a.m., the countdown begins,

Can I sleep now, or in an hour?

Can I sleep at all?

The river of pain runs deep,

dried up tears fall short.

Spreading throughout my body,

filling up all the nooks and crevices.

Am I enough?

For tomorrow, for my life?

Can it ever be enough?

Searching for meaning, for closure,

an end, or maybe just a beginning.

A bird's urgent call,

a car door closing,

Footsteps above my head,

the grinding of the night.

A miracle when awake,

a horror movie in the dark.

5 a.m., it's time,

open-close, open-close.

Darkness welcomes light,

and the many me’s inside me awaken.

Are you okay she asks?

No, and yes.

Can we deal with this tomorrow?

Yes, no new thoughts tonight.

6 a.m., it’s almost morning,

the roulette spins again.