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Every Fucking Morning

Rolled out of bed and fell to the floor,
head pounding, mouth dry.
Crawled on my hands and knees into the bathroom
and puked.
The toilet gets all my confessions.
Gripped the edge of the vanity and pulled myself
upright, shaking and sweating.
And looked in the mirror.
The fucking heartless mirror; this judgmental
piece of shit glass that spits the truth into my face
every morning.
Every fucking morning.
Briefly, I considered smashing my fist into the
reflection, grabbing up a shard of glass and slitting
my fucking throat.
Instead, I staggered downstairs, and ate two strawberry
pop tarts with sweet, rainbow sprinkled frosting.
Drank me up four ounces of Crown Royal, against my
stomach's objection.
It was amazingly therapeutic.
Headed off to work.
I got there, shaky and defeated, and ran into John.
Fucking eternally cheery John.
I despise eternally cheery. It makes me nauseous.
He asked me how I'm doing.
"No complaints", I replied.
I am sick of the lies.
I wonder how long it would take to die after
slashing my throat.
I wonder about the pain.
I wonder about my commitment - do I have the
balls to do it?
I think about this.
Every fucking morning.


KillHope
Written by KillHope
Published
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