Stopped

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I've stopped sleeping again.

The bags under my eyes are growing darker so my makeup is getting thicker.

No ones really noticed.

I think they've grown so accustomed to seeing a ghost of myself that they've stopped looking for the body.

I'm a picture that's faded.

Something with the intensity and saturation turned way down to make me looked muted.

I don't mind much anymore I guess.

It's just sleep after all.

The nightmares are back.

They're what meets me beneath my eyelids when sleep finally visits.

I wonder if that's why I don't even try to sleepy anymore.

They're not as bad as they used to be.
Or maybe that's just what I tell myself.
Who still has nightmares?
I'm so pathetic.

I've stopped showing up to class.
No one's really noticed.

I missed my favorite class.
I stopped arguing in another one.

I've just been relabeled as a student who no longer cares.

I still care. I'm just really tired. My whole body is so damn tired. Can I just fall asleep and never wake up?

I've stopped going to practice.
They noticed.

They ask where I've been.
I force a laugh and say I've been busy at school.

A lie.

They give me my workout.

I run.
I win.

I'm barely out of breath. 

They asked if I ran my hardest.

I'm honest.

I tell them no.

They look at me like they already know. Nod their heads and tell me it's hard to push yourself when you're so far ahead.

I don't correct them. It's hard to push yourself when you feel dead.

My mom used to give me pills to help me sleep, but ever since I looked at some little blue pills the wrong way she's stopped handing them out. 

Tea has stopped working.
Lavender has as well.
My body has grown immune to caffiene.

So I wander around like an empty shell of me.

I want to tell her that I'm not depressed.

People who are depressed actually sleep.

They sleep for hours and hours.

I'm not sleeping. I've stopped dreaming.

People who are depressed don't function this well.

Another lie. I'm not functioning. I'm trekking through hell.

Honestly this post doesn't make much sense. It's a mess. 

Somewhat fitting since the writing should reflect the writer.

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