Hydrocephalus

My head feels like a paperweight against my pillow and I can’t sleep again tonight. It is heavy with thoughts of you—and me. Real events, and imagined ones. I start thinking—Oh, that thing I said that one time, was that too much? Will you still like me after that? I shouldn’t have said that, not in front of you, whom I am always trying to impress. I find myself wanting to do only whatever will make you like me. Even at the expense of my sanity. Even at the expense of my sleep these past three nights and thoughts these past three days. And then I always come to—Well, shouldn’t there be someone for me who will look past whatever I do? My head is filled with hot air. My head is filled with sweet, sweet thoughts that will probably never happen.