It’s 3:17 again. The clock doesn’t tick, it staggers. My eyes sting, I blink too much, and the words tilt sideways. Ink spills where my hand shakes. The lamp coughs light. My jaw aches from grinding. I taste metal in the back of my throat. The silence is too loud — I almost laugh. Insomnia ink spreads across the page, lines collapsing in on themselves. I keep writing circles but they only lead back to the same name, again, again. My leg twitches, floorboards complain. Caffeine ghosts rattle my veins. The paper is damp — sweat, maybe, or the words bleeding through too fast. I whisper each sentence to hear it exist. Every syllable scratches. The page curls at the edge like it knows I won’t stop. Insomnia ink spreads across the page, lines collapsing in on themselves. I keep writing circles but they only lead back to the same name, again, again. Drip, drop — the metronome I never asked for. Every blot a confession, every smear a prayer no one taught me. Insomnia ink spreads across the page. Eyes wide open, I chase the dark and find nothing waiting. I am awake, but not alive. A sleepless hymn, scribbled into endless night.
