Insomniac by Caroline Chou (17, Maryland)

The edges of my consciousness are fraying,
chafed by the too-bright screen of my laptop
lying forgotten
on the end of my bed.
A sentence I had meant to write is rotting on my fingertips;
it has yet to become immortal, to cool upon the page,
but this mistake I’ll only realize
when I wake in the afternoon.

I went to the grocery store today, bought
bean sprouts & melons & raisins
sealed into matchboxes. I was promised
they’d never expire, that they’d last
forever.
Tonight I dump these raisins across my desk.
They’re drowning in the starlight & will rot all the same,
still I wait for them to turn into grapes.

2 AM. The line between today & tomorrow wrinkles
as my limbs
toss & turn & twist the sheets,
the air growing too thick yet too thin
to breathe.
I can’t think straight,
the night toying with my thoughts. I rub my eyes
force myself to stay awake for reasons
I no longer remember, memories hidden among
the cobwebs and dust bunnies beneath my bed.

I went out on the porch to watch the sunset
mere hours, a lifetime ago.
Heaven closed its eyes swiftly,
tears falling
in gilded rivulets. The sky
closed its palms, didn’t flinch as the sun
slipped between its fingers, a careless masterpiece.
In the end I couldn’t say if it bled
in pale blues or reds.

The moon is collapsing in on itself over and over again.
I watch through hazy starlight as it tumbles
backwards into the horizon.
Shadows tease the edges of my fluttering eyes while sunlight
spills across the room, and at last,
I surrender. Suspended in this strange reality, I too fall
backwards
in silence, into the throes of sleep, the air exhaling
and settling all around me.