“Good morning, sunshine”

Silk underwear
discarded
like a growing mould against
cracked enamel bedpost.

The sun spills across
my bed as
the blinds cannot contain it
endeavour as they will to
console me,
to maintain this fragile
stillness.

The bed sheets are a
mess, skewed and twisted into
pale peaks and curls
hieroglyphs, symbols of a dead language.

Knees weak, I stand and
open the window a crack
but the unforgiving stench of
living, breathing bodies still
lingers obscenely.

Black coffee, cold.
Cloudy surface tainted only
by the fossilized pink mark
on porcelain rim.
This, too, is offensive, this
base mercy, this cruel pity.

 

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