Some day your head is gonna turn, and you'll realize I'm missing. Do you realize?........

I wish I was tired. Or hungry. Or cold. That way, I would know exactly what to do to make myself better. But I don't. I sit and stare all day. I poured a beer down the sink today and let the bottle fall to my feet. I wait for the phone to ring. And occasionally, I'll pick it up and dial your number; heart pounding; wanting to hear someone alive. Otherwise, I doze on and off, and stare at the walls. I draw the blinds in the daytime because darkness makes everything seem smaller, closer. I can't sleep for more than a few hours at a time without waking up, covered in abandoned thoughts, waiting to pounce. I've tried making myself cry, just to see if I still can. It doesn't work. My body siezes up, unwilling to show emotion to an empty room.
 
Promises. What fickle, fragile things. I wish they didn't exist. But then again, they don't really exist in my mind. They float in and try to take root, but get blown away.
 
I wait only for the night. It's always on time. I know, without fail, the black will take over the sky every single evening and seep up to my door. It's always there, even when I'm not. It waits for me.
 
When I was younger I had dreams where I would walk, (or float), the streets alone. Completely alone. These dreams were treasured, always my favourite. I could go into shops, take what I pleased, and leave. I could go into people's houses and explore. There was never anyone else. Just street after street of an abandoned world. I would awake from these dreams, giddy with pleasure, clutching my sheets in an attempt to bring things back from the subconscious. Along with adoring these dreams, I was equally afraid of getting trapped inside them; never waking up. It terrified me. Slowly, I began to develop the ability of waking up inside my dreams. Once, while asleep, I found myself in an immense field of red flowers. This dream-world image has since remained burned into my brain. I was sitting, in a dress, in the middle of a blood-red expanse. I was scared. I slowly became aware of what I was doing and where I was, and I told myself, "Ok. Just close our eyes and count to three. Then wake up." It always worked, but this self-rescue technique had me one-two-three-waking up at least twice every night. Gradually, I slept less and less. My dreams became few and far-between. I lost the ability to float. I also became unable to wake inside my dreams. Sleep was no longer a place to escape, it was an inconvenience. So I discovered the night, instead. It was like playing out my favourite dream. There were few people out on the streets, it was quiet, and I had complete control over when I wanted to 'wake up'. It was perfect.
 
I woke up this morning. Written on my fridge in tiny plastic magnets was "Gin is for sluts." I laughed, and remembered.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
"Dressed to kill you look so right, I am drunk with lust tonight. Your wounds are opening wide, and they might be just my size."
-Alexisonfire