20 March 2015



but not the kind that’s cured with sleep.

Rather, the kind that comes with a weary soul.

It’s the pounding ache in your chest, in time with each thud of your heart (or maybe it is your heart). Your blood coagulates, slides torpidly through your veins. It exhausts you. You delay each breath; each expansion of your lungs takes so much out of you.

Even laying here, watching the darkness settle: the effort of keeping your eyes open is almost too much. And then the heaviness descends, suffocative, the cold penetrating your blankets. You briefly consider standing, throwing off the comforter (not that it’s done that so well), switching on the lights, but then you choke on your next breath and your heart thuds protestingly-

and you slump further into your mattress.

You can’t tell anymore if it’s the pillows or your own sadness that’s swallowing you.

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