I smell like cigarettes and sleep deprivation, like the desperation that comes from last-minute scrambles for the deadline, like leaning yr head against a brick wall and staring up through tired eyelashes to a sky that is somehow already getting light. And when I wake from too-short naps in the morning with the blankets twisted under me forcing me into strange contortions, when I unfold my leadweight limbs and creep into another day, I wake from dreams of linguistic symbols and lurid emails, shaking sleep from my hair and checking to see if these responsibilities are still real.
(they are)
and maybe tonight we’ll wash it all away with triumphant grins and drinks in the dark. and if morning touches us we’ll cheer, proud not to have wasted the night. I want the fingers of dawn to be a revelation once more and not a punishment, not a reminder that time is ticking by too fast when all i envision is darkness to soothe me to rest.
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