I hate insomnia, I really do.
You’d think that I’d get used to it, since I’ve had it my entire life, but no, it never gets any easier.
But what I hate having, infinitely more than insomnia… Are feelings.
Fuck feelings, they are assholes.
They’re just running around like a thousand little fuckweasels ruining lives and days. I swear on everything that’s holy if I ever catch one I’m grinding it into the sole of my shoe.
I’m really mad at myself.
I took my heart out of its little box, where it was completely safe and sound, and I pinned it right to my sleeve, like a huge dumbass.
Then what happened?
It got poked. And not poked in a good way.
So while my heart was out running around like it had just escaped Alcatraz, it grew… Or it simply got fat, but for the sake of my ego, I’ll say grew.
Now, no matter how hard I try I can’t stuff it back into it’s box.
Fucking awesome.
I have no choice now but to let it roam free, out there in the big ugly world getting poked, prodded, kicked, stepped on and getting gum stuck to it’s little heart shoes.
Each time it suffers an insult I get this hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, tears well up behind my eyes and I find myself swallowing hard, mumbling about the allergies in the Ohio Valley, and biting the inside of my jaw to replace the pain.