The Rejects Morning

The morning could burn for all I care. Let the toast char to a crumble; I won’t manage to get out of the bed to save it. And who will save me from these white walls and endless pages stuck together — I can’t finger them apart.

Do you remember that morning with our orange sun? My window bleeds bursts of yellow and orange, but never you.

The dayspring arises, and I’m stuck mourning. I butter the black and swallow the bread as punishment for eating up my day. If the morning loved me, it would stay.

I’ve lost so many versions of heaven. I can’t get it right.

Now the dying gleam spills from my room, and it all just kind of feels too late.


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