The Life I Invented

A confessionalist poem about the delusions of insomnia

Turquoise worn to brown, feathers enrobed in dust—
this dreamcatcher serves no purpose.
Reality should dominate sleepless nights,
but I’ve declared myself an insomniac
and I inhale imagination with every tired breath.

Silence burdens me with what did happen,
what I wanted to happen,
and what could have happened if I’d said what I meant.
I replay the voices as they are,
but the words are entirely different.

Pretend conversations replace true ones,
as syrup-sweet intentions glaze the bitter.
Time moves forward as I do the opposite—
so hastily that life and lies swirl together,
and I can’t determine which is which.

The sky lightens.
The clock is meaningless.
Mallards form their V, and the smell of cold fades as usual.
I’ve thought through eight hours for nothing.
I’m satisfied as if everything I thought were real.

I’ll have to live with tangibility at some point.
Until then, faking it will suffice.