Each day is a shirt. The shirt is stuck as I try to take it off. It's that comical suffocating stage where I can't see and my arms are in the air, helpless. Every single day.
Night is a pair of pants. Too tight, but practical. Appropriate for work, uncomfortable. Not necessarily my dream, but I am too tired to make any changes. At least they have pockets. This is my night.
And in between, the hours that might not exist, are shoes. They protect and comfort me while I prepare for the drowning disappointments. Their soles sink into the earth that raised me. And I rise each morning with my arms up, open.