Bruised Ego

       I wake up late with a headache, which pounds harder in complaints to the light. I pull myself up, disappointed to see that the rejection and unhappiness haunting me last night has congealed into an angry mess and settled onto the floor, refusing to be forgotten. I cough, choke, and fumble on the nightstand for water, knocking over a stack of books with clumsy fingers, before closing around a dixie cup, leaking with water that sat over night in lukewarm wet paper.

       Crossing to the dresser, I can see the bruise reflected in the mirror, having worked its way into the shadows under my eyes and corners of my mouth. A restless night has left me branded with frizzy hair and lines of creases pressed into my skin, leaving me with a faraway look racked with insanity that has come to naught. I reach for my phone, but the messages waiting threaten to press onto the bruise harder. It stays off.

       With nothing else promising to do, I trudge slowly to pull down the curtains, and curl up on the bed again, cradling my black and blue, in the fake cushioned darkness of late morning.