A Better Morning

The alarm goes off and I don’t hate it.

That’s new. That’s… suspicious.

﹁﹂

Light leaks through the blinds

in skinny, uneven stripes

like the day is practicing.

﹁﹂

I swing my feet down,

touch the cold floor,

and the cold doesn’t feel like punishment,

just information.

﹁﹂

The kettle takes forever,

Or maybe I’m finally noticing time.

I watch the steam climb

and think, okay, we’re doing this.

﹁﹂

There’s a sock under the couch

I’ve been ignoring for a week.

I pick it up like it’s an achievement.

Small win, thin grin.

﹁﹂

Outside, a neighbor’s kid

drops something metal and swears—

Then whispers sorry to the air.

I laugh into my mug.

﹁﹂

I open the window an inch.

City morning smells like wet pavement

and someone’s burnt toast

and the possibility of not spiraling.

﹁﹂

I still feel yesterday tugging my sleeve,

But I don’t let it steer.

Today is a door—

not a miracle door,

just wood and hinges—

And my hand finds the knob anyway.