Instinct was a prison.
Instinct was like a prison—
She didn’t care anymore, epiphany’s luster abated.
Dim, incandescent light reflected glossily off the orange-painted walls of her bedroom, outgrown. She crushed and railed another line, hoping her hands and mind would follow suit, but there was nothing to write anymore. The scent of soggy Autumn leaves melted through a single cracked window. What did it all mean? Would she sleep tonight?