The Dark Is Afraid of Truth

I leave your house in the dead of night,

scrape the frozen snow off my windscreen
as the racoons call to each other

listen, listen, listen.

I drive home,
the streets empty but for the taxis
and me.
A sad song plays on my car speakers
and I am mission-failed
and sleep deprived.

I wish I could stay calm long enough to not have to yell all the time
I wish you'd listen to the in-between of my words.

I can only push so hard
and the more you say you've 'got my back'
the harder I have to push
to make you go away. 

I'm getting pretty tired.
These dark nights of the soul are getting to me
and it hurts to think you've heard the screaming in my head.

I crave rest.
Like air,
like oxygen.

I have tried so hard.
So hard
always.

Always,
and always through the possibility of (at least) two truths,
two realities ,
and I shift between them;
struggling with the fact I can't be both wrong and right
yet I always seem to be.

How do you expect me to put one foot in front of the other when I've dragged myself this far, pushing you out towards some clarity
when I have none of my own?

I'm so tired
and I have nothing left;

tank empty,

running on fumes,

maybe not even that much.