Lights off during day and night;
Who really cares what time it is,
Or what day it is?
Sweat and grease and oil cling to my skin and hair
As I lay under the covers, taking deep breaths with eyes closed,
Ears focused on the words whispered through my earbuds
And the saccharine symphony of cicadas and my parents
Talking happily in the other room, not caring to lower their voices for anyone else's comfort.
Shaky hands jot down broken words,
Brain straining to not forget anything important
As one hand rises up to wipe a bead of sweat from my brow
Caused by the heat in the stuffy, yet empty, room.
Regret and angst course through my veins as my breathing
Becomes hoarse and forced and I clutch my head
In attempt to expel my horrible thoughts.
The words whispered are now jumbled, mutilated, overlooked
But I don't care.
All I need is that soothing voice to provide
A false sense of security and happiness.
After all, isn't that what everyone seeks?
Something to protect them, a safe haven?
Or maybe it's just me.
Maybe I'm the strange one
Who doesn't care about parties or people or anything,
Who doesn't even care about caring,
Yet cares too much.
Maybe I'm strange for feeling this way.
As strange as it is, as the gentle voice carries me away
To the unavoidable pitch black of my mind,
I embrace it.