Standing in front of a mirror in a room in Bellevue

She is angry at the woman she thinks she loves. This does not make things easy. She asks herself whether she is making things up in her mind, demanding too much, giving too little. She pauses. The unasked questions crash into each other in a jumbled mess as they rush to her mouth. Her eyes close and she breathes deeply. She is afraid to ask these questions, ashamed for even thinking them. Even though they are eating through her like a cancer, the weight of the rotting flesh sagging in her belly, the stench of it filling her chest.
“Tomorrow,” she whispers to herself, “tomorrow will be better. Sleep. Things look better in the daylight.”