Mourning/ Morning

I want to wake up with the sun. Make egg in a hole with avocado on top. Strong coffee with raw sugar and cream and a bowl of raspberries in Greek yogurt. I want that morning light, that ability to wake up ready for a day. That lonely breakfast with a good book. That sun on the floor, that slip and sweatered frame curled up at an unfinished wooden table with flowers in the middle. I wish I was that morning person.

Instead of, wake up late, coffee in the car, hair a mess, same jeans as yesterday. Cringing at the sun through the windshield, cursing traffic. Morning at 3 in the afternoon and still always forever tired. Never eating anything resembling real. Just coffee in my right hand phone shoved between shoulder and ear driving like I’m from here.

Your mornings dictate your day, and your days dictate your life. This is who I am; running late, in my car, sleeping till forced to move. Moving from bed to car, car to work, work to car, car to bed. The sad dance of a person not living. My body just a thing I carry around. My hands always too small to hold the things I need to get from place to place. And then I fall into bed at 3am still unable to sleep because I am afraid of my mornings, of my life I’m not living. I lie awake in the dark dreading the dawn I won’t see, the morning light that won’t warm me. I lie awake thinking of the breakfasts I would make if I were alive.