InsomniaCrackers

 Every Sunday morning, my roommate does the same thing. He doesn’t go to church. He doesn’t sleep in. He doesn’t check his email. He doesn’t loaf around in his boxers complaining that he’s got to work on a Sunday, and he doesn‘t try to discretely shoo a one-night-stander out of the house. He doesn’t even walk out on to the front step to pick the Sunday paper off of the “WELCOME” mat. Nine o’clock, every Sunday morning, he strolls into the bathroom and cuts his hair. He leaves the door open, so that the world sees that he’s cutting his hair. And sometimes he hums, but the melody of A

The only eye A blue eye The filament has burned out And the glass is scratched from the inside You can’t see through it, But you can hear that it’s raining The only eye The left eye With a circle of bruise-black in the center An inky hole that won’t adjust to light It sits in a warm, grey-veil fog Hurting for sleep and quiet The only eye A green eye Begging for the blue of another It knows that when the glass frosts over There won’t be any rain to listen for And green things die in snow

Have you ever tried to drown yourself? I don’t mean coming home from a difficult day at the office, throwing on some classical music, drawing yourself a nice, hot bubble bath, and holding your head under the water for as long as you can stand. I don’t mean pretending you’re a purple, bloated corpse in some river only to dry yourself off and have ice cream later. Have your ever tried to drown yourself with a serious intent on dying? I have. I walked, to the center of a bridge at three in the morning. I removed my shoes and socks and placed them aside with care. I climbed over the rusty guardrail, and without a single sec

 My house feels too big for me today. I sort of drift in and out of the rooms, talking to myself a little bit. What a terrible habit, I say out loud as I drift into the library. I sort of glance over the spines of the books, all neatly lined up on their respective shelves. I haven’t touched a single book in the room in about six months. They all smell like mothballs and the words make me tired.  Bored, I move out of the room. What a shame. I used to be so well-read. I have to admit, today things seem a little bigger than usual. I think that I'm lonely, but I'm not exactly sure. Used to be whenever that little twinge of loneline