Sex? Death? Or not needed?

She does not sleep.

As her digital alarm clock imposes its unkind laws on her panicked mind, she does not sleep. A memory, desperate to be executed, vainly demands attention. Her lips, too often seen, too often felt, pulsate to the beat of eye lashes. There are no tears: those would be a defeat. Hands, too thin perhaps, clutch at callous linen that will not grasp back. Her breath, sometimes even, passing as calm, becomes fractured. She has forgotten her hair, her breasts, the strokes of her hips. Yes, she has forgotten her pride.

The dark is not a factor. It cannot black her sight, cannot leash her ravenous regret. An esitmation, such a struggle without the boast of foucs, says that regret will too soon prove to be contagious. Though she is warm, a shiver invades her body. Then another comes, and another, untill they do not end. Her fingers, driven by a force besides her own, peirce her sheets, her skin. Her lips stretch into the semblance of a scream, though her lungs are unable. Her eyes reveal their uselessness, open like a begining. Her body heaves in a way that has never known pride at all.

The moment is enormous, but it ends. Yet her hands do not relent, her eyes are as they were, her lips relax only at their own pace. The clock, in its perfect efficiency, has forgotten her. The linen now seems to regret its inadequacy and she, whose dream has engulfed her, does not sleep.