by Edwina Barthelemy 

It’s 2AM,
and she sit’s silently at her desk, twisting the ring on her finger.
She bites her nails when she’s nervous –
her nail polish, ruined.

It’s 3AM,
but her eyes refuse to close.
Thoughts spin in her head, sewing themselves into ideas,
like needle and thread.
Her screams are muted by the loud voice in her head,
give in give in give in.

It’s 4AM,
and desperation leaks from her pores.
The bottle of pain killers hides in her dresser drawer.
What’s a few too many?

It’s 5AM.
Her breathing is shallow.

The sirens get louder.

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