An untitled poem I wrote this morning

Sleep plays dead—
meds failed,
Henny laughed in my face.
I lie awake,
heavy with flashbacks
from high school hallways
still echoing with sins
I carved into skin
and stitched into my heart.

There’s comfort in this chaos—
no waking panic
if I never sleep.
The morning can’t touch me
if I beat it to the punch.

But the blade calls—
brutal, honest,
offering relief
like a scream
or a climax.
The lighter whispers too,
softer, safer,
easier to hide.

I stare at both.
Wonder which one
will silence the ghosts
screaming beneath my skin.
Or if tonight,
I let them win.