Morning Routine

I didn't know 

there was a funeral

until I felt fists bury 

themselves in 

my chest.

It is 8am.

Fingers graze

collarbones, searching

for a coffin.

After all, why

would I mourn 

unless someone died?

Class starts in 2 hours.

My body works on autopilot,

airplane mode for a defective 

model.

There is no refund.

I reach for a toothbrush.

The faucet grieves,

permeates every strand

with tears.

I reach for glue and paste

a smile.

Hungry fingers trail 

across my skin.

Starved for the touch

of something living.