This morning I’m like icing spread across a cinnamon roll,

and can’t find myself in the mirrors of reflection to save my life,

and the view from the sleep bubble I’ve created doesn’t look back,

but just piles more and more awareness on top of itself,

like bodies bulldozed into a ditch of forgetting. It’s times like these

I try to remember that I’m hardwired to hang in there and be

stubborn and selfish with what I think to be important,

or whenever I want to make a change in my life and start over,

whenever I need to consign myself to a kind of drafting of the self,

where, even though I know it’s not kind or gentle to be so aggressive

with my expectations for the way I think things should work,

or kind to make my inner child carry bags of concrete bargaining

he’ll pile high enough to protect me from whatever mortar fire of

doubt will inevitably come pulsing down onto my defenses,

I also know it’s a show of fine effort to be so economical with my

feelings, and am pretty sure the only reason this inner war of mine

is happening at all is because it’s Monday and I still haven’t weaseled

out how to make peace with repeating myself.