Each morning I wake
I stretch my head to my toes
I curl them in and enjoy the temporary sensation of
no responsibility and no demands.
For all of those 5 seconds every part of me is grateful
I drink in the energy and peace the stretch brings
For all of those 5 seconds my world is complete and perfect and how it is meant to be.
And then the moment strikes.
A look. A photograph.
A lyric that sings of you.
And you’re gone.
I pull on my jeans and make up my face
to hide the tear stains left by last night’s reality
to hide the tracks of guilt that this is crushing me
that I don’t have whatever kind of guts and gumption is expected in times like these
I drag a brush through my hair, spit out my toothpaste
and meticulously apply the illusion that I have perfect, full lashes.
The kind of ones you see on Marilyn Monroe.
My feet press the gas down
my hands know the way to work
I sit at my desk and then there’s that moment where you stare blankly at your cubicle and think
“oh god, this is my life.”
before you go make yourself a cup of false excitement
and get on with whatever meaningless task some man behind a desk asks of you.
You look at the clock.
Then you look again.
You eat to try and numb out the blandness of each day, never tasting much other
than the dry, stale taste of your day to day.
And last time you checked, you hadn’t gotten fatter, so it was ok.
And then each day
I see a picture of you.
On the news. In my bedroom. On a network that is meant to be social but really just serves
at making my grief everyone’s business.
And each day, it breaks.
That little piece of me that really did believe you could do anything.
You did do everything.
And it still wasn’t enough.
And then each day, I pull on my jeans
drag a brush through my hair
and pretend that somehow I can have it all
that life is fair
and endings are happy
and that one day I won’t need these seconds of stretching to make it through the day.