The morning after by SaraGrace Griffin
I wake up and I am not me.
These are not my wide, wrinkled hands,
These are not my indigo bruises
Grabbed in fistfuls of cellulite
As I contort this spine to see the mirror.
Through stagnant musk
I pad with stranger’s feet
Numbed by the frozen tile.
I should stop wiggling the toes,
I shouldn’t let the pain seep in.
I am fine in this fuzzy uncertainty,
I am conscious enough to recognize
There are memories to elude
Emotions to suppress.
I brush these teeth with 10,000 bristles,
I stare into these gray eyes
As this rabid mouth drips pink toothpaste foam
Plop plop into the porcelain sink.
With trembling lips,
I finally ask God where is my body?
And he says you gave it away.
SaraGrace Griffin is a senior at the University of North Carolina Wilmington, double majoring in Creative Writing and Psychology in an attempt to comprehend their existence. They love traversing their native North Carolina backwoods and baby-talking to all dogs they encounter. Follow them on Twitter @born2blossom