It's 3:08 and I feel as if sleep has given up on me, once again. It's a warm night for October and my head is cluttered with the sounds of the broken down fan placed strategically in the corner of the room. I feel halfway between a dream and consciousness, my mind overthinking every breath. Dawn is not the time for poetry. The sun doesn't hear these ramblings that roll effortlessly off my not-so-innocent tongue. And if he does (assuming he's a he), he sure as hell doesn't answer back.
I've always felt the guilt associated with a sinner. I'm not half as strong as my mother, but have inherited her concern to become an obligatory someone. I feel no need to write sonnets about oppression that reflect nothing of the life I've lived. My depth is far deeper than the man who holds my hand, and a shade brighter than the gloss wetting my lips. I love my lips.
Dew forming on each individual blade of grass, I feel the weight of the night close in. It's amazing how all these words and phrases suspend above me; taunting me into submission. I want so desperately to use them all before this moment passes me by. Another day lost and forgotten.
The sunrise dances through my window, I turn off the fan. Goodnight.
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