morning routine

I set alarms for early morning– at the crack of dawn, to walk in a city finally asleep. Begin to exercise and be on a reduced amount of pills. The bedsheet often crumples, I still haven’t learnt to tuck them in tight enough; maybe I’m just lazy. Like most adults living on their own, my dirty walls are papered with posters, shoddily made origami and flickering fairy lights. A cliche at its finest, but they feel soft on my face when I lie down listening to a single song enough to tattoo my brain. I wish I could get another tattoo– I add several more “inspo” images to my Pinterest, and I see a piece and now I want to make a sketch. It is already midnight, and the alarm for three stares at me accusingly. The sketch will look shitty in the morning light, but for now it is beautiful. I’ve oiled my hair and applied serums and creams, hoping my adult acne would go the fuck away. I check my mail, and there’s a reminder for some assignment weeks ago due tomorrow– I wonder if another cup of coffee would really make any difference. I think about cutting my hair again, maybe going bald, and stop spending so much on haircare that has made not a single difference in this rat’s nest. It’s one and the assignment is shoddily, stupidly done. I doubt I’m getting a pass grade. I don’t really care; I try to remember if I’ve done the dishes. The kitchen sink is always disgusting and the colony of ants hunger for scraps. I have to do my laundry tomorrow; I’m out of clean underwear.

The mirror in the bathroom is dirty, unclear. The lights are harsh in my eyelids, maybe I should go out more. The blood washes and washes into the sink, water running down the tap, my hands will never be clean. My hands are shaky and red and I am washing, washing, washing them. Glass is inside of my tongue, under it, and language limits me. The white morgue light, closing blue walls, a mirror. Morphed and the sound of water running, running, running. My hands are red.

It is two. All is quiet, and I’m now wasting the little time left scrolling. The light is blinding my face– the sound is meaningless. The night is just another day.

I sleep through my alarms. It is seven, and I wake up to my hands red.

Good morning.

art done on krita, a3.