(Good) Morning 

She woke up, unfortunate

fortunately warm

and safe

and breathing

herself

in a gentle metronome

before consciousness, still

a faded figment of a sketched girl. 

Then the pen slips, 

buckets slosh,

cold, icy ink condensates

along her brow;

the queen adorned, woven

in a tiara of anxiety,

awakes.  

SS

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