• Trish MacEnulty


I wake up, look at my phone, 3:16 a.m. Why? My heart thumps. Why? I roll over stare at the ceiling where there is no fan because it sits in a box unassembled by my bed where it has been for months.

The air is heavy and resists my lungs. My skin burns. It's as if I'm shackled. Why get up? The blinds are shut against the world. My ear is cold. I press into the mattress as if it's a coffin, a warm inviting coffin.

And I wait for sleep to slip under the sheet to press its fingers on my eyelids. I wait patiently for this taste of oblivion, practicing patience, waiting for the longer night.


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