Tired old images. I return, exhausted, in need or relief. I settle under the doona and think of things that never were and will never be and my vibrator is old and the batteries are almost flat but I manage it in that way that makes me sad afterward. I should stop doing this perhaps, dog at a bone, wearing it away to nothing. It is already so thin that I can see through it.
In the quietening of my heart I think about the way my friendships follow this same pattern. So thin that I could break them. And I do. Eventually. I rattle the fragments of us in my fist, pull the wings off it, throw it into a breeze. When there is no life in it I cry. When will I learn to be more gentle with my things.
I struggle into my clothes. Catch a glance in the mirror. Habitual wince. All this before dragging myself back to work.