Sleep evades me.
I lie awake in this cold bed,
longing, wanting, worrying,
staring at a ceiling
that offers no answers.

I am afraid I’ve done something
I don’t know how to see,
something wrong without a shape,
something that makes me
easy to step away from.

My mind drifts where it shouldn’t.
I wonder if I am different
than all that came before,
or just the next mark,
another body counted quietly,
a placeholder until something better
arrives.

I hate the night.
It stretches time thin and merciless,
hands me every doubt I’ve ever had,
and asks me to hold them
until morning.

And in the dark,
with no one choosing me,
the truth settles in like a bruise:
I was never meant to be kept.

© Wynter Rayne 2026. All Rights Reserved.