Night Burns

Two little big boys used to sit together on the opposite side of the bus. They seemed like giants to me, at the time- back when I was soft and pink and constantly smelled of plastic perfume and salt.

They used to stare one another down, eyes disappearing behind thin eyebrows, as they bragged over who had the latest bedtime. They threw out half hours like paddles at a silent auction, each raise clipped to the tail of the last. "Well my dad lets me stay up till 9-" "Pfft, my mom lets me stay up till nine THIRTY."

 I had stared at them, across the aisle. Clutching my ugly red backpack (it wasn't pink, so it was automatically ugly by my standards), I cleared my throat and declared "My bedtime isn't till midnight."


 I didn't know what midnight was. I was in bed by 8:30 sharp, every night without fail. But I was fairly certain midnight was REALLY late. So it seemed daring and cool and badass, at the time.
 But none of the boys heard me.

 So I slunk back into my seat, clutching my backpack, and resolved to one day meet midnight.




 The night used to have a beautiful sort of allure to it. A charming mystery, a flickering streetlight, a "come hither" and "WARNING!!!" all in one.
 I was 11 when I met midnight. It was at a sleepover, and I gaped at the bright red numbers of my Cinderella alarm clock as it ticked from 11:59 to 12:00. Hello Midnight, I had whispered in my mind.
 I smiled. My friend shrank away, saying I looked creepy.

 But the next morning, when I was falling asleep in my pancakes, I'd vowed never again. Meeting midnight once was quite enough, thank you.
(it wasn't)

 I used to find a sort of glamor in it- staying up till 12. Meeting midnight's close friends and relatives, 1:14 and 3:48 and the ever-ugly 5:32. I used to boast of it with pride, call my willing sleeplessness "insomnia". As if I, vain and proud little girl that I am, had anything worth losing sleep over.

 But after a while, the stars dimmed.

 Making friends with midnight is not thrilling or dazzling or lovely. Your fingers are constantly cold, and you press them to your burning eyes in the hopes that the cold will serve a purpose, for once. Your joints ache and creak like the foundations of an abandoned home, cobwebs appearing in the snap-crack joints of your fingers, neck, spine. Purple bags buy out a monopoly atop the cliffs of your cheekbones, build a permanent residence there. They sit like kings, proud and utterly tactless. They remind me of the burns I'd get a few years after the bus, when I was blue rather than pink and just a little sharper, a little more cracked and more inclined to playing with stolen matches and birthday candles.

They look the same, burns, bags and bruises.

 But bags are special.

 They are a brand, a kiss, a claim pressed dark beneath my eyes. Here is a girl who belongs to the night, who was lured into the fairy ring of a clock and cannot find her way out. Here is a girl who may play at belonging to the light, to the day, to the sun and the clouds and the flowers.



But she can never wipe the night burns from under her eyes.