I awoke to find my spirit had left me.
Perhaps my blankets had been made too warm
with the tangles of legs of strangers
that it showed itself out the door of my bachelor like a wasp.
Perhaps I brewed my coffee to sharp or left the dishes pile too high that it stormed away like a bitter roommate.
Like winter. Like summer.
My mother caught me and noticed its absence in the same way she’d noticed my sloppy poppy lipstick upon her wine;
A downright waste.
A needle unstitching the seams a much too small dress
with a much too narrow waist,
a much too pink frill,
too much of an innocence
to have ever been innocent.
I went to sleep aware there’d been two of me.
The one my mother birthed
and the one born in my sheets -
the one that remained in a cold empty room with my sharp coffee,
with my bitter tongue,
and wine upon my lips.
To a mother, a child is a child until they are an inconvenience,
and I’ve yet no need to get out of bed.