Before I make my breakfast
The mornings I can manage to remember that self-care is a thing we’re supposed to care about.
I snip gently away the rosebush thorns of last nights’ dreams
Wrapped tight-not-tight around my ribcage
I lean close to the mirror. Close enough for myopic eyes to watch, for tired ears to listen,
Fates best foretold in fewer
“You are going exactly where you’re heading.”
One thought on "Atlas"
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