Silent Night

The nights are the worst part.

It's quiet, I'm alone, and everything that happens is intensified from the lack of distractions, from competition. My mind cries out for answers, develops questions, invents scenes and resolves them unfavorably. There are a few certainties, but even the cause of their certitude is open for debate. I can only speak for myself, and my thoughts aren't the ones I question.

There's the pain, too. Incidental during the day, at night I can't find a good position for resting. Each move unsettles tentative ribs, shooting me with pain I don't feel during the day. Shallow breaths are taken, are cursed as being wrong. Shallow thoughts accompany them, and are also ridiculed.

I want so much to be whole, to be enjoyed, to be complete.