This morning I’m like icing spread across a cinnamon roll, and can’t find myself in the mirrors of reflection to save my life,
and the view from the sleep bubble I’ve created doesn’t look back, but just piles more and more awareness on top of itself,
like bodies bulldozed into a ditch of forgetting.
It’s times like these I try to remember that I’m hardwired to hang in there and be stubborn and selfish with what I think to be important, or whenever I want to make a change in my life and start over, whenever I need to consign myself to a kind of drafting of the self,
where, even though I know it’s not kind or gentle to be so aggressive with my expectations for the way I think things should work, or kind to make my inner child carry sleep bags of concrete bargaining he’ll pile high enough to protect me from whatever mortar fire of doubt will inevitably come pulsing down onto my defenses,
I also know it’s a show of fine effort to be so economical with my feelings, and am pretty sure the only reason this inner war of mine is happening at all is because it’s Monday and I still haven’t weaseled out how to make peace with repeating myself.