I’m the worst kind of person. The thought burrows into your head, an early riser. It blows over a dozen more thoughts like dandelion seeds before you’re up.
Up with the blue-black sky, up with the worm and the dew. You make it all the way to the bathroom; it’s not too far, just across the hall. Your legs call out in remorse of balmy blankets; goosebumps kiss you.
You stare at your reflection against the toothpaste speckled mirror. Suddenly aware of everything– your heavyset 4 AM eyes, the jagged, and the soft angles of your face, the way your hair falls untamed, the freckles unknowing to you.
And for a moment you are stripped of all but your skin, and the urge to retract into yourself swings– a pendulum of dejection.
Above you, a colony of pine sapped mold makes appearances from the corner of the room. Below you, your feet begin to stick to the tile; a sign you’ve been here too long.
You creep along the halls of your house, your floorboards creaking; unglossed and scarred. Your kitchen is cluttered with rushed life, christened with a benign sense of solidarity.
You heat the stove, knowing of the bit of water that remains in the kettle. You close your eyes so as not to feel how dry they are as you wait for it to boil. An activity similar to watching paint dry, you think. It doesn’t take too long because your front right burner is broken and now only heats on high.
You find a forgotten mug on the countertop, a tin of tea bags not too far from. You decide on black tea because it’s the only bag left. The tea blooms in your face, coating it with warmth.
Only one chair is available at your coffee table, so that’s where you sit. You take a sip of tea that is definitely too hot, awaking your tongue with malt. The first flush of dawn trickles through the gaps in heavy drapes, and you think, I’m the worst kind of person.