The Lights Are Always On

In the kitchen the teapot is whistling.

Because I cannot sleep, hot chocolate seemed like a good idea. Something warm and comforting, to help ease myself through these last few hours before dawn and the start of a new day.

I tried not to think a lot tonight.

Thinking itself, a destructive force of nature, when one has aimed the target completely at oneself. And so I read, pulling a brightly covered book from the Barnes and Noble bag - where I restocked my arsenal today, much to the chagrin of my debit card - and focused on being somebody else, in a life that bore no similarities to mine.

And for a few small hours, between reading, sleep and restless dreams, I managed to muddle through emotions too big for me to swallow. Reminding myself, as my mother is prone to do, that this too shall pass.

But knowing this hardly ever dulls the pain.

In my head, something that he said still lingers fresh, and I am reminded how cruel words can be, when they are sharpened by a masters swords. I sit here, stifling a bitter laugh. Wondering if the jaded girl inside me forgot that the innocent girl died too long ago to offer an excuse for the world of men, the things they say, the damage they do. How is it I could have forgot?

My bed is calling, my mug of cocoa empty now by my side, my body urges me to sleep, away from thoughts both good and bad. I will write myself a good night poem ...

Today is soon enough for tomorrow,
tomorrow's worries already at my door, a few hours of uninterrupted sleep a gift to myself before my brain demands to think once more.