Bedtime Stories

My eyes screamed as the blinding yellow light latched itself modest self upon me. Why? It happened so fast—so unexpectedly. At first, my mouth watered as the taste of peppermint fermented on my tongue and the scent of jasmine danced in my thoughts. I was so happy, and I am still so happy. But why do I lie here on the ground, drawing a sweat as I have to consciously pump air in and out of my lungs! Why do I stare at the ceilings at night thinking of nothing but those tormenting demons who scream me lullabies at night! I am so happy! The days are blinks, and the nights linger like the smell of a rotting opossum disemboweled on the turnpike. My bed encases me, and my sheets burn my wrists and ankles as they twist around my unwilling body. “Help me, please!” I will silently scream. “Please.” Hours go by and my eyes burn from the salty crust forming around them. Even blinking took too much strength, for the night devours my will, my hope, my time. So here I am. Happy. I truly am happy. But I can’t explain why the nights love me so. Maybe it’s because I might not love myself as much as they love me.