in my kitchen
heating up yesterday’s cold coffee in
the new white microwave.
A white bedroom that doesn’t feel like mine yet.
A white line down the court,
down the carpet,
down bathroom countertops,
and this stove isn’t hot yet
and my fingers are cold.
Some day I’ll be older,
but it will always feel the same:
a long list of names
I’ve been meaning to call back.
A heart attack. And I still need to shower,
need to feel needed,
need money to turn on the heater.
My mother sends me checks and tells me to check in
whenever I can. I scrub breakfast off the baking pan
and water the plants.
In the morning,
I eat a glowing half of an orange
and wish I was thinner. Chocolate for dinner,
and folding up clothes.
and swallowing yesterdays.
It will always feel this way."
— First Thing On a Monday Morning; Hannah Beth Ragland (via allmymetaphors)