This Is Not Morning

It’s four something in the morning and I’ve started my day. No one needs for me to be awake at this hour. My oldest son will wake at seven to get ready for school. My youngest, will get up about then too or he might sleep an extra hour or so. Their dad does not have to leave for work at any set time. I do not have any place that demands my presence today. So why stay awake at four a.m. with only four hours of sleep under my eyelids? I do not trust myself to go back to sleep. I’ve been having nightmares, awful bloody intense nightmares. And I’ve been longing to be wrapped up in arms that love me. But, no arms like that live here. So if the nightmares return, I can pretend like he chose me, like he’s here for me, and let him hold me when he says, “come here” or I can be honest with myself and believe I am just a whore he keeps on the side because he knows I’ll never leave while I’ve still got no place to go. Maybe I shouldn’t write blog posts at four something in the morning, but isn’t this the time I’m most honest, the time where I’m not afraid to say the things that rip me apart? It’s almost five now, and the honesty is fading and I’m running out of words, which happens when I realize there aren’t enough words in me to heal all the wounds created by every other hour of the day but four a.m.

 

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