Hunger and stress wake me long before the alarm can scream.
I lie still, blinking at the ceiling, watching shadows crawl across the cracked plaster like they’ve got somewhere better to be. Sleep and I haven’t been on speaking terms for months, maybe longer. No matter what, there’s never enough silence in my head to let it in.
My mattress is thin and hard, one of those things I used to tell myself was temporary until it wasn’t. The walls of my room are a patchwork of salvaged foam panels, scavenged from recording studios that folded faster than the dreams that started them. My mic stand looms in the corner like a sentry. The red light on the audio board still blinks—proof of last night’s recording, or maybe just a heartbeat from some other version of me who doesn’t feel like she’s drowning in debts and responsibility.
Hunger and stress wake me long before the alarm can scream.
I lie still, blinking at the ceiling, watching shadows crawl across the cracked plaster like they’ve got somewhere better to be. Sleep and I haven’t been on speaking terms for months, maybe longer. No matter what, there’s never enough silence in my head to let it in.
My mattress is thin and hard, one of those things I used to tell myself was temporary until it wasn’t. The walls of my room are a patchwork of salvaged foam panels, scavenged from recording studios that folded faster than the dreams that started them. My mic stand looms in the corner like a sentry. The red light on the audio board still blinks—proof of last night’s recording, or maybe just a heartbeat from some other version of me who doesn’t feel like she’s drowning in debts and responsibility.