Night High

I watch the ever-changing figures of an old shadowed ceiling. Twice has a baby kicked my side, tearing the skin from the inside. The growl is not mine, but God's reminding me that it's only a matter of time before the professionals become my friends again. Shapes have stopped and color begins. Light pinks, greys, blacks, darker and darker until my eyes have almost shut. Then spring back up as quickly as it went away. Such change leaves me to wonder, "Will I rest tonight?" Nature is flexible, dark here, light there. Humans don't have the pleasure. I can't decide to not cry another night or to go without eating another week. I don't have the pleasure. They sting now. My fault again. I'd die for choice. I promise that. The choice to feel good or the choice to feel bad. The choice to be crazy, the choice to be too smart for my own good. Promise kept.