Wreck

My counter sags under a 16-ounce bitter brew

that drowns the lies I tell myself to crawl

through another morning.

I tape on a flypaper smile to trap

the insults before they speed

through the streets, melting asphalt

and my reputation.

I’m a five-car collision before I tie my robe.

My face is a tic-tac-toe crime scene.

My hair is an undiscovered Amazon jungle.

I’m a wreck with no tow truck.

I’m a disaster zone with no warning.

It’s just another ordinary Monday.

inspired by “What Would Gwendolyn Brooks Do” by Parneshia Jones:

published in Mad Swirl

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