The Day Before Us

Some mornings I wake up wearing cobwebs. They cling to my skin like popped bubblegum, like cotton candy, like lake weeds and pond scum. Sometimes I try to pull them off but they tear my skin, leave me looking raw, red, over pumiced. Most often I just let them rinse away in the shower, they dissolve quickly, pool down the drain in lines of shimmering silver. The cobwebs are the easy ones.
Other mornings I wake up covered in tiny spiders. They crawl over me in waves, tiny legs digging into my skin like needles, like teeth, like bits of shattered glass. I shake them off, let them fall to the floor like dust that time I sent my breath across the top of the bookshelf. They’re hard to lose. They like being close to me, the warmth of my blood. The spiders are never as hard to accept as I expect them to be.
One morning I woke up with Death sleeping next to me. She looked so peaceful in sleep like a child lullabied to dreams, like trees in spring, like the edge of the moon from through a window. I didn’t wake her, let her sleep, breathing in and out as cities erased themselves in her dreams. I wanted to let her sleep forever, finally get some rest. She wasn’t the worst.
Most mornings now I wake up to nothing.

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