3 a.m.

[Skull Hyde]

In the hollow of three a.m.,
the ceiling cracks into maps of nowhere,
and my eyes, stubborn as old locks,
refuse to turn the key.

Thoughts swarm like moths around a bulb,
banging wings against the glass
bills unpaid, words unsaid,
that fight from last week replaying
on a loop of what-ifs and should-haves.

I twist in sheets that tangle like regrets,
count breaths instead of sheep,
but the clock ticks louder, mocking,
each second a drop in an endless drip.

Dawn creeps in, gray and reluctant,
and I'm already worn thin,
a ghost in my own skin,
dragging through another day
on borrowed fumes,
praying for night to be kind this time.
But it never is.

 

[Skull Hyde]

In the quiet hours, when the skull's wiring frays
like old telephone lines chewed by rats in the attic,
I sit with shadows that don't remember my name.
The world tilts, a spilled glass of milk on the table,
and voices echo through cracked plaster walls,
but they're mine, looping back, tangled in static.

Friends were once anchors, heavy and real,
now they're ghosts in a fogged-up mirror,
wiped away with a sleeve that leaves streaks.
I reach for words, but they slip like wet soap,
falling into the drain where thoughts swirl and drown.
Alone isn't empty; it's crowded with echoes
of what used to fire bright in the gray folds.

Nights stretch like rubber bands about to snap,
pulling memories taut until they break,
a birthday cake uneaten, a hand not held.
The brain's betrayal is a slow leak,
dripping isolation into every corner,
pooling under the bed where I lie awake,
counting the pulses that skip, skip, skip.

No map for this maze of misfiring nerves,
just the hollow thud of footsteps in an empty hall,
mine or not, it doesn't matter anymore.
Loneliness wears the face of forgotten yesterdays,
and brain damage laughs in the dark,
a companion I never invited, but can't send away.