Nicole Johnson

I lay awake pondering recent events.
What is it I could have done better?
At times I feel as though I’m on display, placed inside a room filled with windows that I can’t see the other side to.
I lay here, eyes gazed toward the ceiling, trying to count all of the circles that were plastered on the walls, and I can’t concentrate.
My mind wanders to a vision from the future of worriers.
I am frightened.
I am alert.
I want nothing more than to wrap you in my arms and flash a dimpled smile, letting you know that everything is alright and yet I can’t.
The words don’t quite make it to my lips and my mouth faltered into the abyss.
Our lives are a show, long-extended soap opera and the rating have come in.
Everyone is watching us like hawks to their prey and I can’t win.
Nothing I say or do makes sense as my character stumbles into the murky water to drown one last time before restarting into someone else’s world.
This is the place where the nonconformists come to die.