Everymorning, I wake up and settle in:
To the cozy, approaching constricting, blanket of comfortable familiarity,
Pungently exuding the rot of yesterday’s failures and,
More forebodingly, the sweet desperation of tomorrow’s promise,
Keeping the world comfortably distant.
Everyday, I struggle against:
That pulsating urge, echoing through my mind and body in equal measure,
To surrender to the prison of calcite to which I was doomed,
Before conception or conception,
To bear ’till death do us part.
Everyeve, I wonder as a child does:
If I am the me I was supposed to be?
As the sun sets, I can see my own end,
Casting long shadows on my shallow life,
Eclipsing the certainty sunlight had shown me.
Everynight, I kill myself.
Myself sticks around to watch and salvage the parts,
Sifting, through the lens of tomorrow, for the best,
Of me and the day to rebuild:
The me made for tomorrow.