Wednesday, March 5, 2014

If you don’t want to see the sun today,
close the blinds, pull the blankets back over your head.
There is nowhere you need to be.
Your job will be waiting for you,
and if it won’t wait, you will find a new one.
You were made from the dust of stars
and the spit of the universe,
and you will not let a paycheck keep you from yourself.
The plants will still live if you neglect them today.
They are durable; so are you.
You can go at least three days without water,
three weeks without food.
You are a miracle of existence:
that thought alone is almost too much to bear.
You can reevaluate the garden tomorrow if you need to.
Turn off your phone; they will stop calling
when they realize you are not going to pick it up —
but then, they will text.
Turn it off.
You have twenty-seven bones in one hand,
and I know sometimes every one of them feels tired.
Tuck them fast under the side of your face.
Wave your sheets like a white flag;
go back to bed.

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