Insomnia
As opposed to counting sheep,
I visualize Vanna White flipping over the letters
G-O T-O S-L-E-E-P
on a continuous loop.
This is just a small facet,
a peek into the room that hosts the rack that binds me,
the torture of insomnia.
Of course I push Vanna aside most times,
provided I can still make her stumble
on cold stilettos for a while,
while I, half-lucid, point, laugh desperately and smile
at my own restful mind’s demise.
I then spend time counting faults,
failures, and life’s mysterious pranks
that have so fooled this April.
For instance:
Why did I not speak to peers in school?
The fear of rejection, or acceptance, or both?
Where did my parents meet?
Where was I conceived?
Who was the first person to sigh “Awww” when I first breathed?
What such deceit brought me to these streets?
How bad did he beat out her teeth to make her want to retreat,
to flee from the terror that contained a tease of release from
the solitary life that single parenthood leaves?
How did he handle this defeat when she left him to save my sister and me
from the life we’d have to meet in staying in that shitty scene?
The bastard probably didn’t eat for a week
replaying the violent ways he chased her away.
Blaming Daddy’s belt and the way he was raised
for those lonely, crazy days when I was just a babe.
And will my daisies return next year, are they worth the trouble to save?
Will I ever graduate?
Am I slowly going insane?
Or do you think like I do,
feel like this,
the same sleepy desperate shame that makes me
switch the light on,
so all these words are saved?
Will I get back the days of smiles that hurt your face,
because they refuse to stay away?
Will my family finally call one another
and find the right words to say,
not simply point their fingers pettily at who is to blame?
Will Vanna please do her Miss America thing and wave?
My brain really needs to lay down
like a good dog and play dead for the treats it craves.
©2024 April Ridge All rights reserved.
April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom.