She gets drunk on Night.
She tilts her head back and lets the dark fall through her throat, chilling her insides. It goes down without a swallow. She doesn’t protest. This vulnerability is easy to enjoy.
Her conscience watches, adrift near the ceiling, as her fingers gently unclench themselves from her secrets, leaving a sweaty mark. Her lungs loosen, her lips lower their guards.
No better way to lure a youth than an alternative to alcohol. No better bait than romance.
No wonder teens stay up.
No wonder insomnia is a drunkard’s prison, leaving one hopelessly asphyxiated in the velvet insanity of one’s own thoughts- sobriety has never before been yearned for with such clarity. There is nothing to do but wait. When daytime comes, these demons will erase themselves like stars.