Music plays from the corner of the room. The window, cracked, allows the chill to seep in, crawling to me from sill to floor. It lunges, unseen, in widening bounds, descending upon me as I lie suspended in a cocoon of varied fabrics. The roar of the furnace erupts in intervals, combatting the vicious cold.

Flashes, fire and ice, trade kinetic energy behind straining lids. I can’t sleep. Restless foot juts and ruts in anxious palpitations while I take in the disturbed cadence of my own breath. I grow more frustrated with each passing moment as a schizophrenic cacophony of thoughts grace me with their fleeting presence.

A dead weight grows within my gut and I can’t explain why. It’s just there now. Never saw it coming, never heard the click of the trigger, but it hit me dead center.

There’s an urge to cry, but tears don’t fall. It’s the kind of buildup like when you want to cum but can’t. A ruined orgasm, leaving you on edge and eager for more.

I’ve discovered a penchant for masochism, more of the emotional flavor. Feeling something at all is so intense, overwhelming. This hunger for submission. I want to relinquish control, hand over the key, but the fear and the weight won’t allow it.

Instead, I mull over the thoughts under the covers.