so close... to writing...

and every night she laid in her bed, in her pajamas, listening. she was trying to hear the ticking of her heart, trying to find a rhythm that would rock her to sleep. she would--on loud nights, when weekend traffic blared past her often opened window or when summer heat required sprinklers to be turned on every hour throughout the evening--be unable to hear anything from herself besides the soft scratching noise, like crumpling thin paper, breathed into the world surrounding her as she turned onto her side underneath sheets. this perceived auditory deficit would startle her sometimes, wondering how her heart could be so silent and still function. and so every night she laid in her bed, in her pajamas, searching for the sound of her pulse, trying to find her heart, and wondering why it still beat.