Insomnia
I have fingerprint bruises all over my legs, a massive dark purple hurts-to-were-lace-underwear bruise on my ass, Library of Congress call numbers written all over my hands and I only got two hours of sleep last night.
I hate fighting. But I guess it’s not really fighting if you’re the only one mad and the other person’s drunk and just wants to cuddle. I feel a little stupid, but I’m a writer, I have an active imagination that runs wild with tears and visions of ambulances when he gets back two hours later than he said he would. It’s different now. We share a room and a bed and a life. I love it so much, but it means consideration for when I might be unnecessarily pessimistically worried.
No wonder I couldn’t sleep last night. I just want to sleep now. Eight more hours.
