Trapped between the place of sleeping and thought, I’m stuck here.
Nothing cohesive enough to allow for solace
And nothing resembling calm enough to carry me away from consciousness.

Over and over
the record spins and I’m caught without a comprehensive sense of rhythm.

Late night revolutions
The only ghosts I’m fighting are the habits I won’t let die.
A reckoning of sorts, out of sorts
And left,
and wondering what would have happened if I’d told the story from a different perspective,
Knowing the only one I can ever offer is my own.
Even this feels inaccurate,
as though I’m paying lip service to an insanity that demands my attention,
regardless of us both knowing there’s just no damn logic to be found here at all.

Too late for sleep, I’ll slip away seeking some semblance of self
and come back mostly intact,
in time.