If she could, would she?

Probably not, but she tells herself, whispers it like something she is afraid of being over heard saying, that she would.  Says she would, will, make it different, make it better, brighter, bolder. 

Then she sighs, laying her head back against the sweat stained pillow, feels the cold knot in her stomach and wonders if what they say is true, that we are just victims of ourselves. 

No more victim, she thinks and turns on her side, restless, bunching the covers between her legs and thinks fuck the fickle hand fate, if she knows, believes, why can’t she? 

Fear, she is afraid, afraid of the unknown – pain and disappoint has become a comfortable companion – it does not challenge or prod and to walk away from it…to walk away from the comfort of knowing…knowing how and when it will end…and risk…well…if she could, would she?  

Probably not, but still, she tells herself, tells herself it only takes once to be right as she kicks the covers off and pads silently across deep carpet to stand at the kitchen sink, running the tap water until it is cool. 

She runs her wrists under the water, fills a glass and takes a long drink while she stares out the window, just once…she thinks…sighs…drains the glass and goes back to bed to toss and turn and agonize about if she could, would she?

May be…