Wake Up

mornings are the hardest –

when I am never ready

when they come without warnings

when they resemble a cynical smile

when they think twice

to ever serve me gleams of silence

to stop

and

breathe

when they allow sunlight rushing its way

to the fragile folds of my skin,

when it feels nice

yet somewhat in a hurry

as if reminding me I cannot indulge in it

for too long; time’s up –

the to-do lists are piling up,

the children are echoing each other

debating the hesitations in my head

as if they can read me

yet choose to tear these pages anyway,

no time for coffee nor contemplation

as society has promised

when the only space given to me

is the only one I can ever remember –

the one to cry on

and that’s probably not even on my own space,

my tears are busy finding their place

in between the clutter - the mismatched blocks,

the cookie crumbs, the half-folded clothes,

the strands of hair dropped but never swept away,

the deluge of thoughts belonging in the night. My tears,

they tiptoe their way around this clutter

I wasn’t prepared for

but alas rest themselves at the edge of

too-much.

This is me

waking up

not into mornings

but postpartum anxiety.

And my children; maybe they are

my mornings

bringing light into my day

before I am ready.

Or am I?