Tangled in a knotted nest of curls,
I am defeated by the cold, pale skin
of morning’s icy hands.
Her fingers wring my sleepy neck
as my eyes burst free from weighted prisons;
thrust into the world
like a stillborn child.
Are you the same silly girl
who left the coffee pot on?
Burnt coffee smells like sin
and wasted potential.
You can’t just put it in the dishwasher!
Now this morning’s cup of possibilities
tastes like yesterday’s failures.