Dawn

Lights on, lights off.
You enter quietly, sit in your bed. Your hands crush the linen and the silver stars in your fingers while you breath and wait.
You look at your feet, at your shoes.
You want them to be off.
Without having to use your hands.
You want to be a child again, when you would sleep in the backseat and would be carried to bed -they would take your shoes and your clothes off and pull the blankets over you and kiss your forehead while you pretended you were still sleeping ’cause you didn’t want to talk.
Ever so slowly, you lift your left leg and hold your foot.
It’s cold, you shiver.
You yawn.
You think about removing the make up at least the eye make up.
But…
Every move stirs what’s left of energy inside you. It’s hurtful.
You’re running on reserve battery power but don’t know how to recharge.
Morning is coming soon.
You raise your eyes to the window and already notice streaks of blue light invading every uncovered space in between the heavy curtains.
You think it would be good if an angel came in just like the blue light in the hours preceding dawn and ripped the heavy curtains of your soul, ripped them apart, forever.
But you fall heavily asleep before you think again.
And you still have your shoes on.