wake-up call

it’s 6 a.m.

i’m nursing

a three-day

migraine as

i clutch onto

my half-empty

coffee mug

afraid that i may

completely slip

out of sanity,

lest i keep hold;

on the messy

unfinished sketch

of the face i’ll

never get to

hold close to

mine, except for

these subtler

moments of

mourning—

when my

creased-up

forehead

lightly touches

against the

paper, beneath

the shaky table;

catatonically tired

from carrying

along the weight

of the world

that wasn’t mine

to ever exist in.

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