Sweet, paper-pale pea flowers line the edges of my bed,
whispering old playdates and elementary days as I tuck in
the too many blankets.
My dog curls on whatever already spotted clothes I left,
keeping the darkness
snoring and shifting softly,
huffing and murmuring,
with each passing headlight outside.
I keep my back guarded by the wall,
my bottom bunk left exposed,
as I stare past whatever familiar shadow
I can remember, lying there.
Some odd bird chirps,
past the sun’s sharp ribbons dip in surrender,
and I cannot will myself to ignore
the melody of all I missed and failed
before the house turned near quiet.
The floor that was never mopped outside my room,
the clutter covering my desk,
and the tabs left on my laptop
remain where they sat that morning.
But there was nothing that could be done now
but to rest.
And yet, I can’t.
So I stay with these mad chirpings
and delicate whispers,
before my alarm can blare over all.
The original poem I had planned had been about all of the housework that I needed to do and how overwhelmed I felt, but I ended up starting from scratch when I got home because it felt too much like a to-do list. Since I was about to prepare for bed, I figured that I’d start with a few things I saw or was worried about, and that built the momentum for the rest of the poem. I used a lot of metaphors and imagery, since I didn’t want to just say the things I’d been stressed about. I wanted to explore how your brain reminds you of everything you messed up and what you could have done years after, but I couldn’t really describe that without the poem just recalling all those memories. If it wasn’t obvious, I’m much more of a morning person than a night owl simply because I can do a lot more early in the day (and I like coffee).