Good Morning

Alicia Charron

I.

“Wake up”— wake up I hear you; echo “Wake up”— I’m trying Begin with eyes

Please, —”wake up” washing clean the hands that hold onto yesterday, You are not an intrusion. scrubbing out the night’s poor taste for a clean slate.

II.

Begin by opening your eyes.

Feel the skin of your eyelids peel apart at the seams to break through the barrier between the world within and the world without; Assaulted by light— at first a sting, adjust to see there is no light, just grey; Grey, stale air landing empty on your face as you rise, slowly. Slowly.

First, up on your elbows, rub the heels of your hands into your eyes to bring the light back because although it hurt, it was alive— better than grey, better than nothing; Wait for the resulting swirls to dissipate before sliding your legs off the side of the bed; You will fall or you will stand, either way, you will be out of bed; Slowly. Stay there, wait for the grey, stale air to do something other than break with your every move; Make it move with you, so maybe it’ll bend, it’ll flow, instead of shatter and hold you still; Slowly. Walk; Slowly.

III.

Make yourself a part of the world. Start by cleansing your body of waste, Existence is not a choice.

You are not who you were yesterday. You are just beginning. She is a stranger. Let yourself begin.

Infinite checklist to keep yourself from falling back asleep into yesterday, into her, into who you used to be and everything that happened to her. That’s not you, but if you allow yourself to think for even a moment, isn’t it?

Wake up

Her father is still my father, so her memories must be mine. She felt unwanted hands on skin she didn’t mean to show, skin their hands exposed.

Wake up

But I’ve done all the steps and all that’s left is the grey, stale air that doesn’t change, so why should I? How can I? When the bruises still linger, coloring my flesh deeper the harder I try to rub it away. When there is no “first” other than the “first” that makes the second, the third, the tenth, the fiftieth, attempts to fix the memory of the first.

Wake up

And what about the times without numbers, the times memorialized by scars? The times that stole my time away, reduced it into sleep and remembering. Remembering is pain. That is why I forget when I

Wake up

When I sleep, I am her, and to be me, I must

Wake up

“Wake up”

Wake up

Wake up.

“Where’d you go?”

My eyelids split, not to assaulting light, but to warmth, a smile that invokes my own

“It doesn’t matter; I am here now.”