The nights are the hardest.

They are long and restless and full of strange dreams.

They are savage in their taunting of my loneliness.

They are amazingly creative in the making up of wants.

They make me realize the depth of my hollowness, and create a void twice as big as my heart.

They chew out my dry dreams and put wetness underneath my eyelids.

They long for better bruises, for ridges around my wrists, for black and blue in secret places.

They leave me looking like a ghost, so when I wander the streets, people give way.

The nights make up for what the day gives.

They take away the placebo induced euphoria and give life the set-down it needs.

They mark my thin, impressionable skin with sleeplessness and leave purple imprints.

They make me realize that is the colour of love.

Not red.


Based on The Nights Are the Hardest by Kathleen L. McDonald



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