Su Poesía Y La Tristeza Mía

Cold bones

This morning as my father comes to start my day before day has begun,
I am cold.

The floor of my room reeks as a cautionary tale,
As my feet are met with cold floors that warn me not to get out of bed.

I have already begun with this impending omen,
On which I know the rest of my day will dwell

No, I'm not nervous for my test,
My eyes fluttered open with such haste,
As if it was already time to have my pen at attention

But my thoughts of her
On this morning,
Are wrought with something
Ugly?

Maybe not so, because I don't believe that she could ever inhibit that word
But,
Fearsome

I look into the mirror at the tired flesh of mine.
Bags and flourishing pores that expand at their need for moisture

Though I'm not sure I will give it in subsequent amounts.
Just what is hydration?

My hair makes me look like a lioness,
But I feel like a kitten.

Just cold.

I plug in my blow dryer to melt my bones,
And hopefully my thoughts
(Though I know those chances are slim)

They prevail as I opt out for the water of roses
Not my usual perfume,
But it glides on like honey
And I know that my skin doesn't want to let it go

The smell now resides in my nostrils as the
Hope?
Of a better day