I pretended to be mad in the morning. I cursed at the dull space. I put water in the kettle for tea.
I wished for better days than misery. I prayed for a miracle but expected the received silence.
Maybe tomorrow will be better, and it was until I realized it was here, and these feelings remained.
I reached for the critic, but she also wasn't in her office. I looked for hope, but with a pillow so firm it was an obstacle to fall asleep. Why doesn't her secretary take messages, "just have her call me. Have her coach me back into shape." I wondered why I depended on the romantic self-discipline. Wondering what compliment I might pay him if my tongue could cherish his actions rather than metaphors of the sun. I wondered what the sky looked like this morning, but I was too busy cursing in the tub.
Who can bare their reflection in this? Who can bare their own self-disappointment? Who knows how to be lost like this?
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