Insomnia – By @zoejessicad

By Zoe Jessica Dawson

Insomnia

At half past three this morning as I lay in bed wide awake, SCAB looming, I took out my moleskine to do one of Deanna’s freewriting exercises from a masterclass earlier this term. The idea is just to personify a concept, to make concrete an abstract with some simple prompts like ‘what does their breath smell like,’ and ‘what are their eyes like.’ Then you take what you’ve got and poemify it. Deanna and her masterclasses have inspired the poet in me to come out of a 5 year hiatus, and it’s probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since starting SCA. Unfortunately, the chronic insomnia that I thought I’d fixed has also come out of it’s hiatus, which is probably the worst thing that’s happened to me to since starting SCA. So, here is the late night result of the collapse of the best & worst. (PS, I don’t like rhymes but thought I’d give it a go). Insomnia does not have violet half moon bruises under teary eyesor valleys carved out beneath cheekbone lines she does not fold up neatly, bones stacking upor step lightly like a dancer making artshe’s not holding a copy of some philosophy bookdoesn’t listen to the kind of music Kurt Cobain wouldher voice is not like gravel, rasping and slowafter too many cigarettes out in the cold her touch isn’t soft and hot on your skindoesn’t arouse youher breath isn’t one you want to breathe in.See, Insomnia cannot be the love of your lifebut she’s also not the girl you fucked one timeshe clings. Like the ex that wouldn’t let go guilty, like saying yes when you should have said noher breath is stale, teeth unbrushed for a weekher touch is clammy, and digs in far too deepvoice shrill like the screeching of a dying birdshe makes your balls shrink with every damned word in her hands is a notebook, completely blank‘cause she’s not thoughtful or creative, it’s all an actshe probably listens to BBC radio 4because what no one tells you about insomnia is she’s fucking boredher movements are heavy, she drags her feet her stomach rolls up, not ribs stacked all neatyou look at her face and find it’s puffed up like riceshe stares back at you, nothing in her eyes. I’m a writer, romanticising is in my blood but there’s nothing romantic about not sleeping for a month.So fuck personifying something sick like it’s someone you knowLet me introduce you to Insomnia: just hours awake and alone.