The radio rips my eardrums and feeds them to the morning chill
and I blame it on Sunday.
And I blame Sunday on Saturday,
and Saturday on Friday,
until I can imagine little me, gawking at my big-gulp-kindergarden teacher
with rosie cheeks and
hair the exact single shade as a brunette barbie doll
I remember putting my backpack in the pale yellow cubby,
and half thinking what an ugly color it was.
Thus I blame monday on Ms. Big Gulp,
and every yellow cubby in America.
I wait with my face buried in my white sheets
for the moment where the fog lifts
Where I realize, a Monday isn't as intimidating if you take out the m-o-n,
and maybe something beautiful will happen today...
but that moment doesn't come.
I slam my hand on the alarm mercilessly,
I walk to the closet in the fog and put on leggings and a T-shirt,
and I hate myself
I smear foundation on like vaseline and I hate myself.
I eat breakfast and watch the sun rise
filling the backyard with color, as I drain my cup of tea,
and I remind myself
that I should be hating myself,
I rush out the door and the weather bites my cheeks and I go back in,
grab my grey hooded jacket,
I'm late
And I hate myself