Friday Poetry: "Midnight Letters"

Thank goodness it's Friday at last. This week has been such an exhausting one for me—so much going on, especially since finals are in a month and next week is cut short due to Thanksgiving break. My teachers are trying to cram as much work as possible in the little days we have left, I think!

This week’s Friday poem was inspired by the idea of fleeting joy in the midst of so much pain. The small moments when you feel that even though everything is crashing down, at least for one second you belong. There's always the overhanging knowledge that something is wrong, but at least for now it doesn't matter.

As always, I would love to hear what you think about “Midnight Letters”. Happy Friday, everyone! x

Midnight Letters

witching hour. one-lane highway. stale cigarette smoke
curls through my veins. I can hear what the night
is thinking. it’s thinking of me. it’s thinking of the
sound of heartbreak and stars shot down from
inky skies. it’s counting down silent seconds,
wondering when the sun will arrive to burn it away.
the night is afraid. so am I.

but it smells like warmth, like faded leather and
broken guitar strings. it smells like everything I
shouldn’t want and everything I do anyway. the
world is asleep, but out here, the emptiness
breathing deep inside my bones is replaced by
something else. magic. or maybe something more,
something untouched by human hands. the
night yawns high above me, and I think perhaps
it is friends with this thing that breathes
deep deep down where no one else goes.

not a soul in this world knows how to love me,
but birds are singing in my throat. I think I know
what freedom is: empty road, star song, love and
fear and everything in between. I’ve tried time and
time again to dig my own grave, but something
always snatches the shovel from my hands before
I can finish. my heart is ensnared in an animal trap.
but my mind is wild. my eyes are dancing. it’s the
witching hour and there are monsters lurking in
dark shadows. I am one of them.

the night is bruised, stars like blood leaking across its
sleek silken surface. I am bruised too. I am broken.
shades of grey and black blur into each other, but here,
teetering on the brink between dusk and day, is the only
place I can see in perfect colour.

there is a thing breathing deep inside my bones:
magic, or perhaps stardust. infinity hums in every
inch of my skin, and the night is calling my name.
I think perhaps it’s time to go and meet it.