Rest. Poem by Kaitlin Van Zile

5 a.m.5 a.m.5 a.m.5 a.m.

The clock in my cousins room ticks, but the hands don't move.
It's always stuck on a time of day I don't want to see, it's always mocking me. If I stare long enough the corners fray and blur. Vignette's of the early dawn. Vignette's of desperation. I want to sleep, why can't I sleep, everyone sleeps.

My dogs are snoring on the kitchen tile, my mother has already begun getting ready for her day at work. I have a date at 10 a.m. I need to rest.


I know from music lessons that rests are when the noise stops. When everything ceases to continue for a brief moment. My band director told me that rests are the hardest part of music to play, and I can't disagree.
It's difficult, taking a break and stopping the constant flurry of fingers, the screaming of exhaling lungs, the music. Stopping it all.

I can't sleep.
I can't stop my mind.
I can't lay my head on my pillow and let my eyelashes tangle together.
I can't.

I'm too aware of my pulse. Too aware of the proverbial 'I am, I am, I am' that Ms.Plath highlighted in her own documented escapades with depression. I can hear it singing from my wrists, rushing through my ears, pounding in and out of my aorta.

My bones are creaking, grinding against the socket, they don't stop screaming. Nothing stops screaming at me. I can't breathe, my rib cage is laced too tightly. My lungs are climbing up my esophagus, like they're trying to escape. They've never seen the daylight, and it's coming soon.

I'm tired of watching the sunrise before I've truly appreciated the night. I don't mean the swirling stars, or the muted glow of the moon. I mean the gentle lull of dreams. There's a period of the nighttime where everything is magic, and everyone is busy pretending.

I want to be someone else, somewhere else, with different memories and different intentions. I don't want to be a scared little girl afraid of letting go. I don't want to be afraid to close my eyes and slip into my own subconscious. I don't want to feel those sticky hands on me all night, or hear that purring in my ear. I don't want it, I never wanted it.
I don't want these reoccurring nightmares.
I don't want much of anything really.
Just a rest at the end of this frantic musical phrase. Time to breathe. Time to recuperate before the music starts again, before the sun rises and the violins swell.

I just need to rest.