Threadbare

The morning creeps in,

a pink light tongue fucking the curtains.

Coffee sits cold on the bedside table,

half-drunk, half-forgotten.

You thought things would be different.

That by now,

you’d have it all figured out.

But the days fold into origami hearts,

creasing in all the wrong places.

You talk to people,

but the words chafe like pumpkin seed shells.

We’re all wrapped up in our own small struggles.

There’s no big revelation, no grand failure,

only the static of everyday disappointments.

But you tried today, didn’t you?

And you’ll try again tomorrow.

Life is just this,

stitching a thread of something

that never holds together.