Waking Up

 I got out of bed today.

To anyone else, that can be the easiest part of the day.

It’s the most regretful feeling for me.

When I wake, I shiver with cold thoughts breathing down my neck of how I should not be alive.

That the diet of pills should have went through and stayed, unlike everyone else.

I get out of bed and those thoughts lie there like a tempting mistress, waiting to be ravished.

I go to the bathroom.

When I look in the mirror, my reflection looks away.

It refuses to take note upon the invisible permanent tear trail.

We cannot believe that the purity stripped away from such a pretty face could leave such battle scars only the close could see.

I dress my body in anything that can cover every inch of regret that stains my skin.

It is not a good morning and never is.

It’s a mourning as I grieve over the loss of innocence and the security corrupted by nightmarish remembrances.

I go to the kitchen.

I do not eat so early but I watch.

I watch my peachy heart roll so quickly off the counter-top and bruise on the marble floor.

I am hesitant to bother picking it up.

It’s cold and it’s breaking and it’s racing with such anxious pace, you would think it ran a marathon.

The house is still and yet I expect my monster to come out from underneath my bed.

The only deafening sound is the heartbeat of myself.

Of someone who is so anxious to get back to bed but so scared of lying with their monster just below them.

Or in this case, the one inside them.

The one that stayed with no intention to leave.

And suddenly, I wish to be alone.