Sin-eclair

This morning,

I open my eyes to find only seven spoons

lying in a small, dented cup by my bed.

The world asks for twenty.

One spoon — just to sit up.

To blink against the ache in my joints,

to gather my breath and convince my heart

that gravity is worth the fight.

Two more — for a shower.

Steam curling over stiff shoulders,

the heat loosening nothing,

my hands heavy as wet towels.

One — to get dressed.

It takes all the grace I have

to pull fabric over skin

that burns at a whisper of touch.

Another — for breakfast.

Lifting the mug,

stirring the spoon,

pretending the taste matters more than the exhaustion in my jaw. 

One — for a phone call.

Because words weigh more than dishes,

and smiling through pain

Keeping up appearances 

is its own kind of heavy labor.

By noon, I am out of spoons.

The day still stretches,

hungry and demanding,

but my hands hold only air.

I borrow from tomorrow.

I always borrow from tomorrow.

And tomorrow will wake me

with fewer spoons in the cup.

instead ask:

is it SINCERE

was it CATHARTIC

was it FUN TO MAKE

is it MADE BY ME