A fox named Worry bit at my ankles through the night, so I am rising before the sun. Flipping the switch on the dim fluorescent kitchen light, I decide a cup of tea and breakfast might pacify the bloodshed.
The eggs are not to my liking, but as usual, I settle for easy over potential burns. It tastes alright.
I hear the birds waking up as I sit down to write, and I move to close the window before the fox finds out we have to begin another day. He paces by my feet, mumbling something about repetition and paternal disappointment. His ears have always been better than mine. The chamomile helps some.
When the sun greets us, we're already at my closet, arguing over shirt and shoe combinations. We finally find something that covers the wounds. He perches on my lap while I try to brush the knots out of my hair. The quiet unsettles him, so he kindly tries to fill up the space.
Worry loves to give me questions, though I don't always know how to answer them.
"Is this what being human is?" the fox asks over and over again, gnawing at my stomach when I try to focus on getting ready. "Is this what being alive is?"
I can't lie to him, even when I wish I could. Instead, I remove his mouth from my skin and pat his head. "We'll get through it," I tell him. The truth tastes alright.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoetryThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
