Held Awake

I stare at the ceiling.
I click my feet.
My eyes burn.
My mind races.


My subconscious wakes me
in the middle of the night—
no distractions,
nothing to focus on but myself.


I need sleep, I repeat.
Please let me sleep,
I say internally.
My pleas are in vain.


So I write.
I work on my digital art.


My son is asleep,
his arms and legs wrapped around me
lovingly.
Moving is not an option.


My stomach gurgles.
I find a granola bar in the nightstand—
thankfully.


I’ve learned how to eat
lying down.
I’ll take care of the crumbs
when morning comes.


I need to use the restroom,
but my son has migrated,
now using my bladder as a pillow,
the way he did when he was baking.


If he wakes,
neither of us will sleep.


I stare at the ceiling.
My eyes burn.
My feet click.


No sleep again tonight.


☾⋆｡°✩🦇✩°｡⋆☽