In the hollow of three a.m.,
the ceiling cracks into maps of nowhere,
and my eyes, stubborn as old locks,
refuse to turn the key.

Thoughts swarm like moths around a bulb,
banging wings against the glass
bills unpaid, words unsaid,
that fight from last week replaying
on a loop of what-ifs and should-haves.

I twist in sheets that tangle like regrets,
count breaths instead of sheep,
but the clock ticks louder, mocking,
each second a drop in an endless drip.

Dawn creeps in, gray and reluctant,