3 a.m.

Here we go again,
Here we go.
3 a.m. Lying in my freshly changed sheets,
Just as I thought I was done staining them.
Here we go,
I don’t even know why anymore.

How is it that I was
Before I was even
But I guess that’s how I am: backwards everything doing;
Changing the sheets to stain them,
Knowing the passing fully fledged shadows on the sidewalk
Before acknowledging my aching silhouette lying there in a fetal position,
Yet to be born.

Here we go again,
I’ve stopped asking questions quite a while ago,
When the tears first stained my pillowcase.
Just roll with it,
It’s not like anything is going to change.
Except for the sheets.

And, while crying away
The known, the unknown,
The times I’ve felt like a stranger in my own body,
The times I’ve wanted to read the map of my soul and realised my eyes and fingertips were blind,
The times I’ve longed for everlasting togetherness to the point where I felt my ribs crushing my sore heart,
The times I’ve wished for my existential dread to turn into jumping in puddles on a serendipitous rainy day,
The little voice in my head notices:

Why are tears salty?

and everything goes quiet

– Patricia