Mornings
I wake up in the haze of utter exhaustion
miserable, as usual
and my mind immediately suffocates me
with every possible worst-case scenario
that could take place in the hours to come
Be anxious about this
but more anxious about that
Look at what’s to come
and anticipate its terrors
I do not want to comply
but I always do
I feel bile guarding my throat
from the threat of happiness which sometimes attempts to cross the border
between stress and relief
You will not have time for leisure today
You will not have time for joy
Your only goal is to make it through the day
and do what you have to do
I am resigned to this routine
because it is familiar
that, and it seems so much easier
to always expect the worst
than to hope for the best
For if nothing is expected
losses can feel more like sorry anticipations
than murdered hopes
I think of the part in the day
where at last
I am allowed sleep
I long for it
Yearn for it
Ache for it
But really, truly, deeply
do I believe that in all honesty
I am just aching
