Your body struggles against our efforts.
Your eyes are closed. Your lashes dark and curled against your cheeks. Hair drawn back in a ponytail that would have made you frown.
You would sleep at your desk in front of an open textbook. Stick thin ankles pale, crossed on your desk, foot resting against your lamp as you lean back in your chair. Head tilted, mouth open in careless repose.
We could not wake you then.
We cannot wake you now.
You would scrunch your brows, eyes closed.
I'm not sleeping, just thinking.
You would resume your rest with a gentle snort.
Fuck off you would mutter, the sting dulled by your sleep-blurred words. A reflexive response to anyone who dared try to tell you to do anything.
Those who dared were never forgiven. Any no a soul-deep betrayal that you would make them regret.
I still regret. I think we all do.
