Not For Sale
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Her cumbersome flesh sinks deeply into the freshly laid bed sheets. She hides her body beneath the linens; beneath the darkness, ashamed. Fearful. Soft fabric grazes her skin as she turns to her side, hugging the edge of the bed. The ashy dark is highlighted solely by the moon beams seeping through the window on the far side of the room. It smells of dry, stale wood--airy and empty. The silence is garnished with the tinkering echoes of the heater and the hum of the computer on standby. She lets out an exasperated sigh and rolls to her right, facing the adjacent wall. She draws her knees to her chest tightly, pretending to disappear; to collapse inside herself. The void must sense her defeat. Her brow furrows and she squeezes her fingers into two balls of frustration. She wraps her arms around her waist and cringes with reality--her flesh beneath her fingertips.
The train was moving in.
Darkness satisfies blind ignorance. She could see the thoughts approaching vividly behind her eyelids. Silence pretends to offer peace when it is so often becomes the birthplace of internal chaos.
Beneath those sheets, that night sky, when most find rest and satisfied sleep, her mind burns with analytical reasoning, unwarranted worry, and yet justified fear. She rests her forehead on her knees, her hair tumbling about her face. The day flashes behind her eyes, pausing at various intervals--developing scandals within her mind. Questions and misplaced trust. She's been here before.
The tape plays through once. The intensity exhausting. Don't trust anyone. Keep your heart on safe...
Stop. Pause. Rewind. Repeat.
No. No. No. A whisper, barely audible escapes her lips, "Dear God. It's me again..."
Evening and morning, and at noon, I will pray and cry aloud and He will hear my voice.
Psalm 55: 17
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