I wake up tasting rust,
and call it breakfast.
The sun looks guilty,
but I still blame the rain.
I hate the chairs,
the way they wait for me.
I hate the air,
how it touches without asking.
And I hate that I hate
like a dog chewing on its own tail,
thinking it's a bone,
thinking it's a gift.
Feb 19
Feb 19, 2026 at 11:33 AM UTC
I wake up tasting rust,
and call it breakfast.
The sun looks guilty,
but I still blame the rain.
I hate the chairs,
the way they wait for me.
I hate the air,
how it touches without asking.
And I hate that I hate
like a dog chewing on its own tail,
thinking it's a bone,
thinking it's a gift.