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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