And here I lie, prostrate on the floor, pantyhose constricting my bloated stomach and torn at the toes, my dress worn too many times and washed too little. Hair a mess, hands uncomfortably cold and body warm. I’m trying to be poetic; trying to find a kind of stanza between my tired eyes. But I find no romance in this position, of me, ugly and sprawled, body parts strewn across hardwood.
My, it’s hard to sleep.