Woke to sunshine bleaching out the horror of last night,
To the morning heat stifling the liquid flow of visceral words,
To Saturday night being pushed slowly out by slight breezes,
To vocal insecurities and pain being evicted from chaperoning palm trees,
Your late night evening love-hate monologue is now my eerie morning clarity
walking through the house,
shopping in the store,
and attending to errands.
My eerie morning clarity makes me squeeze my flesh and blood a little tighter,
linger in the mirror a little longer,
examine the monologue scouring for answers,
Alone is my recourse for good living now.
It’s Sunday morning.