Has to be some sort of record.
But now I don’t sleep.
Like I’ve forgotten how.
Instead I lie.
Sore, swollen eyes wide and searching in the dark.
If I am able to distract myself,
the result is highly productive.
Would you like me to do your tax?
This is the wrong bed.
And this sickness. Uneasy, terrifying, lonely, dark, sickness.
Like a tiny kitten following me everywhere.
Unlike a tiny kitten, not cute, not soft, not loving.
Like I could vomit any moment,
and no-one would know the liquid was you.
Tearing at me from inside.
I know you.
Conjuring all the usual suspects.
Maybe this time something more.
I am defeated.
I am too well-trained to be the sad one anymore.
I am too well-mannered to show the truth to anyone but you.
I refuse to be a victim, but it doesn’t stop the inevitable persistence of the sickness.
And in sleep I am overcome.
The knife is deep in my skin.
This is not the envelope I imagined.
I knew not to trust the postal service.
To sleep for years and let my life go by.
But I don’t sleep.