You can't sleep. Again. How can you not sleep? You think to yourself. You roll on your side and your nightgown drapes over the mattress. It's happy to have something beneath it for once. Good for you, nightgown. Run your hands along your side. If you lay at a certain angle, you can feel the tip of your hipbone beneath a small layer of fat. Even through the fat, your hip is sharp against your finger. You smile. Strange how something so uncomfortable can be so comforting.
Eventually you rest your hand on your stomach, palm curved around your belly. You do this often, to the point where someone might mistake you for an overly maternal pregnant woman. You're not nursing a baby, of course. You're holding your failure in your hand. In fact, you can almost feel the fried rice you ate for dinner gurgle against your palm. Usually you fall asleep this way, one hand on your stomach, one on your hipbone. One shrinking, one growing.
Shrinking, shrinking, shrinking.
The darkness pours into your mind, turning your sanity inside-out.
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