She is me

She’s sitting on her bed, door slightly askew. The sheet that lines her mattress, turned up at one corner, just like her duvet. Her deep brown eyes droop, the day has taken the life from her. Her only haven is littered, a collection of unwanted items, books half started, a package that had been opened and marveled at, only to be put to one side for fear of spoiling its pristine mask. Cup of tea to her left, laptop on her lap, radio on. It’s 22.54 and she knows she needs to sleep.