Not Today

poetic prose

Photo by McKenna Phillips on Unsplash

You wake up in the morning and the first thing you want to do, before you move a muscle, before you rub the sleep from your eyes, before you even take a breath, the first and only thing you want to do … is cry.

And you do. But it’s not a good cry. It doesn’t feel good. It feels cowardly and shameful. It feels wrong and selfish. It feels like a sign.

It won’t be today.

You say all the things to yourself that you’re supposed to. You give yourself permission to start again. And you do—reluctantly—but you do.

You move about your morning. You talk, but the words feel programmed. They move over your lips, but you don’t taste them. You barely hear them, but they’re yours. Your hands perform the necessary tasks that are yours to manage every morning. For them. And then your hands perform the necessary tasks that are yours to manage every morning. For you.

It could be today, you tell yourself. Just keep moving.

Your legs carry you to your next responsibility. You…