good? morning

mornings

have always been

for procrastinating being alive

listening to sad songs

to start the day

just in case i forgot who i was

while i was sleeping

mornings mean

watching the sun

set fire to the pictures of violence

littering my twin bedsheets

from the night

i yawn and stretch my shoulders

in the dull heat of the flames

every morning

when i wave hello to my walls again

darkness clings to me

it clings to me

like dust clings to old sweaters

like viruses cling to young bodies

and it is heavy,

this darkness

this morning,

the demons complimented

my music taste

and i cut my wired headphones

with purple scissors

every morning,

and every moment

between mornings,

i am standing on a battlefield

with a ballpoint pen between my fingers

and in the soft flesh of my belly

i inscribe poems

telling myself, i'm winning! i'm winning!

but i'm just bleeding

this morning

i realize

i've married myself to darkness

and called it a coping mechanism

this morning

and the last

i have prayed for light

but it is difficult to know

if the sun is rising or falling

(am i finally winning?

was it ever mine to win?)

this morning

i feel bloated with questions

and prayers that i don't want to pray

and unfinished poems

to scribble onto sketchbook pages

instead of skin

i yawn

and i stretch

and i brush my hair

and i pray anyways

for Light

because i want to understand what it's like to see

and to win

and to dream in colors that aren't red

and to dance

and to be alive again

i pray in poetry

and sometimes in no words at all

but still i pray

because this morning

there is nothing else left for me to do