What Mornings Are For

Mornings are for writing bad poetry and crying. Smoking. Definitely smoking…

Mornings are for beautiful sunrises and stark realizations. They are for memories that won’t fade, and for chasing after the ones that have. 

Mornings are for wondering whether to shoot myself, or hang. Woods, or house? Then remembering my affairs aren’t in good order. Fucking bullshit. Goddamn it. 

Mornings are for becoming reacquainted with pain. My body aches as the pain calls for its pills. Fucking pills that numb me until I’m a simpleton; hazy and stupid to the point that I can’t make sense of anything. I hate living this way. 

But, first…always first…mornings are when I remember you’re gone and God shows me the true meaning of pain, once more. Sorrow I’ve never known before invades my being. Regret and guilt permeate every cell of my body. Then, come the questions. Unanswerable and relentless, they bomb my brain until I can’t think. I’m nothing without you. Nothing. And I miss you more each day. Oh my God…you’re never coming back and I don’t think I can stay without you. You mean sonofabitch. Sometimes, I’d swear you did this to me on purpose. Even in death…if you can’t have me, no one can.God help me, I love you, still.

Mornings. Fucking mornings.

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