Entirely Wrong by k.p.k
I don’t like sleep. I like glassy, red-tinted, half-shut, blurry visioned “fuck me” eyes. I don’t want to have sex just because it’s nine thirty on a friday night and your parents are out for dinner. I want that look of acceptance from your mother when you say we’ll go out to eat with them and that look of satisfaction from you when you keep your hand on my thigh under the restaurant table all evening. I don’t like sleep. I don’t like laying in bed, just allowing the present to become the past like it meant nothing after it’s happened. I like staying up too late on the good days, and even more on the bad days, thinking that maybe things will get better the longer I’m up - knowing they won’t, but still hoping they might. I like the vulgarity of late nights. Like all the bad decisions come out with the moon, or when the music from the bar across the street gets louder to cover the fact that everybody’s breathing just got a whole lot heavier. I don’t like sleep because I can’t stop thinking that if I didn’t sleep, I could stare at the night sky long enough over time to finally see a star die. People ask me why I look tired all the time. And there’s no way to say that I stayed up all night to count every star to try to sum up even a quarter of a fraction of how I feel for you. So I just say I had nightmares again. And I don’t think I’m entirely wrong. No, I don’t like sleep. I don’t like feeling like I’m missing chunks of my life, like I’m blacking out and not even with a drunk story to tell about it. I don’t like knowing that life fast forwards for me while it’s crawling for you. Because I keep trying to get on my hands and knees to keep up but it doesn’t seem to be working. No, I don’t like sleeping. Not alone, and not here. So maybe not ever.
*usher voice* ooh i’m about to diiiiiiive in