Every day
For the last three years
I wake up
And I hate myself

Maybe it’s been five years
Maybe eight
Surely I’ve lost count

Rare are the mornings
My aching muscles breathe a sigh
The sun drips through the window
Drenching me in warmth and life

Such euphoria is fleeting
It comes and goes
In two-week intervals
And I’m forced to watch it fly
To others’ faces
Where it rests much longer

There must be a balance
Dangling in the ether
Desperately waiting
To be discovered

But when dawn breaks
And my hand searches the sheets
It is hate that I find
Once more