I sit and I think, as I seem to do every morning, over my coffee. It’s been seven years I’ve been here.

Seven long years.
What have I done in those seven years?

Mostly, it would seem, I have wasted them. Created more problems than I have fixed.
So I sit, watching another mourning pass me by and wait for something to come to me.

It doesn’t.

I think about writing my life, but I laugh.
There are already a million books of a million lives like mine.

So I was abused my whole life. So I should be dead.
I don’t think I’m best seller material. I’m just another broken mirror, another shattered window.
Discarded and useless.

The sky is washed out, pale, hugging the trees fearfully.
I am scared. My past isn’t so far away and the future is too many tomorrows.

Today … today is washed out and pale,
and I hug my knees fearfully.

Advertisements