Not a bot.

She wakes in the middle of the night.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep.

She rolls to her left side, squeezes her eyes shut.

Waits.

Nothing.

Sleep won’t take her back. It never does.

Not once she begins to chew the midnight thought-snacks.

The doctor says it’s getting worse.

Was there hope of getting better?

She tries again. Kicks the blanket off. Eyes shut. Jaw tight.

Nothing.

Of course not.

She’s alone and that’s her fault. Everyone’s made sure she knows it. Her father most of all. He hammered it early, made sure it stuck.

A chill creeps in. She drags the blanket back up, tucks it beneath her chin, curls inward.

Too late now.

She's chewed the midnight thought-snacks.

They're chewed with more vigor.

She’s a bad friend.

A worse lover.

Whatever this is it's clear she deserves it.

Bolder now.

She's not going to get better. She's running out of time.

And what does it matter anyway?

We spend our lives pretending we’re more than patterns. Conflict, survival, repetition. This is our way.

So what happens when the conflict is within you?

What happens when this is it?

This room. This ceiling. This limit.

I hold back because trying would prove it.

Because if I give everything and it still isn’t enough then what am I?

The midnight thought-snacks are plentiful.

She just keeps eating.

She turns onto her other side.

Eyes open now. There’s no point pretending.

Eventually, she's full.

But she's still hollow. Scraped clean.

At last, her eyes burn, blur.

And only when there’s nothing left to take,

she sleeps.