Poem -

Most days

Occasionally I’ll treat my body like its my birthday. I’ll feed it cake and prayers. I’ll pamper the skin and paint the nails. Hum  happy birthday to the walls and colour the mirror with neon painted messages of “I love yous!” I’ll hang streamers from my ears and tie balloons to my lips. 
Some days it’s my funeral. Well, I’m mourning someone. A little girl. Her coffin is plump and blanketed, birthday cake crumbs scattered in the folds. It’s a very private ceremony, only the potted plants attend, and they’re soon to follow suit. Those are the worst days. But most days boredom settles in my pores. Every screen gobbles me up and digests me hours later.
I awaken to reality in a haze of dramatic thoughts and hearing my own voice is like hearing waves crashing. Except the beach isn’t in sight and the sun hasn’t kissed my pale body for weeks. Most days I swallow my loneliness. Most days it swallows me. 

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