kels(dot)blog

I wake up, these days,
around half past nine.
Zombie walk the dogs
in a bedhead and mismatched
shoes. I don’t brush my hair

And I don’t care about my neighbours
that much, or at least their opinions.
So I don’t brush my hair unless
I have to present myself.

JJ comes home around six, so I
start getting ready by five. Unless
that day I woke up dreaming of
my hands around my father’s neck

In which case I get ready at ten.
I need two hours to like myself, but
by noon I look confident. By one I look dangerous
and by two I can tell him (the mirror)
I hate you. I hate you, I FUCKING

And by three I can calmly tell him
to get off my fucking porch. I hide away
my children I don’t have. I don’t let him near.
And by four I shed a single tear for the thought
of him dying in some horrible
suicide.

Like any good housewife I clean things
with the time left, and try to conjure up
a happy memory. I can’t.

So I cry and cry and
cry and cry and
conjure up an answer for
How was your day
instead.