It’s a foggy morning
inside my head.
Dew settles
at the base of my skull
a damp film
across my dull
thoughts,
if I dare think any
to begin with.
The morning is calm
thickly embalmed
in a layer of
my evaporated tears
from last night’s
chaotic qualm
now an ominous fog
over my aching body.
Overwhelmed
and overflowing
all the while knowing
the fog won’t lift
along with the sun
in the morning.
I carry it with me,
a thundercloud
where my brain should be,
storming with doubt
and filling itself
with every ounce
of feeling
it can hold,
though nothing
can hold me:
the storm bearer.
None can spare her
this heart terror
filling her brain
with acid rain,
can’t prepare her for
this hurricane
that she creates,
that only she can
evaporate
but we both know
she won’t.
The fog guards
her wounded heart,
and if she can’t find it,
no one else can.
It is safe in the fog,
because it understands her pain
like no one else has.
It shields her
from prying eyes
while she heals herself
and gets lost inside it.
She wears the fog
like a disguise,
but has worn it so long,
she’s forgotten
what she looks like.
It’s a foggy morning
inside my head.
So cold and uninviting,
I crawl back into bed.
If you like it, please share it wherever you post. Or, grab my debut book, Flames Speak, on Amazon. But sharing it on your socials is cheaper, so I wouldn't blame you. Either works.
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