I spend nights wrestling with terrible insomnia; in daytime I am reclusive but free. In solitude, I play out tiny dramas in my head. The walls breathe and sweat. This was meant to be my family’s home, but now houses nothing but starvation.

The clock hums, and blood is flowing. I look for distraction and find nothing but. 11 o’clock, pills beckon. My hand on my belly, I wash them down; they are ice in my gut. A child outside screams and I’m back on the operating table with legs spread wide. My sweet babies… the flashback leaves me hanging precariously over the edge of memory. Things were supposed to be different but instead I’m still at war.


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