I’ve always been a night owl. The silence of everyone laying their head down for the day has always brought peace to me. I can easily get lost in a book or even writing in a notebook by my window, looking up only to admire the stars. Sometimes, it’s when I am happiest.

And sometimes, it’s not.

Sleeping away troubled thoughts was an option I often took, but I am not always able to escape everyday life when I close my eyes because what I see after my head hits the pillow, is worse.

Dreams are when my suppressed anxiety and depression come out and disrupt my sleeping mind. It reminds me that it is so easy to dismiss the reality that terrible things do happen.

I dream of losing the most important things to me in fights, in break ups, in car crashes. I dream of dying by my own hands, by your hands, by freak accident. I dream of leaving, packing up, disappearing, not being able to be reached. I dream of not mattering, being ignored, being cast aside, having people realize that I am not as great as they once thought.

When I wake, I realize that these things are only dreams. That these dreams, should not matter. Not to me, not to you, not to anyone. Yet, they stick with me.

Perhaps, that is the reason that I cannot sleep, that I do not want to sleep, and that’s why I am awake so late at night trying so hard not to slip into another dream because the hardest part is waking up. The hardest part is remembering all of those things, and reliving it over and over.

Dreams are a possible reality that I simply do not wish to experience, it’s a warning, and I put my guard up once again.

There’s a girl in the mirror who wears my face. When I tell her to smile, she smiles. When I tell her to frown, she frowns. When I tell her to turn to the side, she does. And I envy her.

She wears my face, my clothes, and has my body shape. But there is no depth to her, she’s a mere reflection. With a simple glimpse, her appearance could tell a story.

In the morning, she is sleepy. Just waking up after her alarm goes off. She wears my pajamas, she has my dark circles, and she yawns desperate to go back to bed and hide.

In the afternoon, she is distracted by thoughts inside of her own head. She changes into comfortable clothing, my leggings and my sweaters. She turns her pale skin and dead eyes into a colorful masterpiece. She smiles as I smile, trying to make it through the day, as if the concealer would hide the fact that she cried herself to sleep.

In the evening, she wears my tired face. The fake smile is tossed aside and the make up is wiped away revealing the sadness that lives in her cheekbones.

All she is, is a reflection of myself and still, I wish to be her. She is only a version of me, but she is one that doesn’t have to feel the way that I feel. She gets to stand there and smile when I smile. And somehow, it sounds better.