Sleepless in My Own Skin
Written for those who know.
My day ends.
My night begins.
My sweat rolls out, slowly.
Anxiety holds dominion.
Depression, dark, has taken control.
Shadows, behind the eyes,
Movement, fast yet slow,
Forlorn thoughts, moving around.
Always unexpectedly.
Sleeplessness, lingering, painfully.
Tears, leaking from eyes that are too dry,
Too dry from the imprisoning emotional suppressions.
Loneliness. No one sees or hears what's deeply inside.
Not their fault. I never let them in that far.
I stare up at the ceiling, trying to find someone’s gaze — God’s, or maybe an angel’s.
Some divinity that sees me — or one I can blame,
Yet I am embarrassed for thinking this way.
I look away, a little ashamed.
Lonely for so many reasons,
unnecessarily it always appears to me.
Such life is eremitic. Unchosen choices.
Staring at the television screen, seeing but not,
Nothing capturing interest or attention.
Open the kitchen cabinets,
Not hungry, but yearning.
Open the refrigerator door,
The same. Wanting nothing there,
But hungry for everything,
And yet, nothing is there.
The air feels heavy. Oppressive.
Not hot or cold, or comfortable.
Not comfortable in my own skin,
Never desiring endless solitude,
But seeking it out anyway.
This feels to be true to me, sometimes.
Tonight, is that sometimes.
The burdens feel heavy.
Impossible to rank their weight.
They converge, compressing.
Sweat leaks out, slowly.
Even when naked, alone,
On a cold bedroom floor,
Sockless—because the socks felt too heavy.
Tonight, for some reason, they do.
The yearnings come and go.
The sadnesses, they stay.
So, not alone.
Not alone,
but alone,
with those.
Those miseries.
Other people do know.
They will see themselves in this,
And in me, perspectively.
Even, if we are all still alone,
As a third party.
Close the eyes.
The clock ticks.
Sleep evades,
Get up yet again,
To check the pantry,
To turn on the TV,
And stare at nothing interesting.
Pitiful, you call yourself.
Alone with the miseries,
Hungry, but full.
Fulfilled, in an unsatisfying way.
You smile, sadly to your self,
And shake your head, to yourself,
And go back to bed to lie awake,
And wait for the next rising of the day,
When you put on your public face and pretend,
Pretend you are fine,
And normal, well rested, in your own skin.
Copyright October 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved
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