The Morning Dance

The morning spills into my room
    and it’s loud, loud with things 
all over the place. 
   A pile of washed clothes 
stares at me from the chair 
  in the corner, judging 
the quiet in my hands. 
  A cup of water on 
my nightstand begging me 
  to drink it and 
the sheets are still twisted 
  around my legs. I hate that. 
I breathe out. I close my eyes. 
  Starting a new day is a task 
and to be honest, 
  sometimes I need the courage. 
I’m not ready. 
  My underwear feels 
tight around my thighs, 
  so stupidly tight. 
A small reminder 
  that my body is betraying me. 
I adjust myself 
  to feel more comfortable. 
Isn’t it humorous? 
  How we hold the shame 
of other people? 
  How we wear it 
as if we were spies 
  slipping into a new disguise. 
I dig my nail 
  into the palm of my hand. 
Anything to not think of that. 
  My thoughts move forward, 
now it’s you. 
  Only for a quick second, 
can’t linger, 
  can’t think of you, 
not now. 
  You’re still able 
to crush my reality 
  with the faintest passing 
of a thought. 
  If only I could join you 
there in my mind. 
  We could pick flowers 
from each other’s teeth 
  and turn them into secret gardens, 
meant only for us. 
  We could run around cities 
of lonely people and forgotten dreams.
  We could smile and mean it. 
We could, but I can’t think of that. 
  Not now, not when I am a forest fire 
taking everything with me. 
  You don’t deserve that. 
I climb out of the tangled sheets 
  and let the air tickle my thigh. 
A new day to start.