Some days, most actually, you just can’t predict them.
You can’t predict they’ll finally eat a breakfast you’ve suggested and even ask for a second serve, politely.
You can’t predict they’ll believe your lies about there being no lollipops in the cupboard, the ones that magically appear after lunchtime.
You try to suppress the shock and excitement when they think sitting in the trolley for the entire grocery shop is a good idea and when they actually stay asleep from the car to the bed.
The daily grind isn’t always dressed in four walls and a desk. For some, it’s dressed in tiny clothes and waves around a cheeky grin.
I’ll take every unpredictable pleasure I can get.
She was stuck in the best kind of way. At the corner end of the café counter, the warmth of the coffee machine complementing the cool water she sipped. The smell of fresh macadamia muffins and vegetable frittata straight out the oven wafted around her morning and she relaxed her shoulders. The rain fell from the sky, forcing her to look out the window and calculate just how wet she would get if she tried to walk to the car. Dare she leave? She rested her hand on the mighty movements of limbs rolling around in her overconfident belly, the rise and fall of her fingers as each one felt the full force of a tiny human. Leaning back into her cushioned chair she sat, still and quiet.
Dare she leave, when she was stuck in the best kind of way?
I wish I could bottle this feeling of calm; a peaceful escape from the pattern. Shrink me down and let me lay against the curved walls like a genie in a lamp.Tears well in waiting: for it to be over, for the haze to spread and the melancholy to rise. Let me lay against the curved walls of this calm, I will not take up space but rather be taken up; nestled in silence and awe at the feeling of your blissful, untainted existence that flows through my core.
She wrote about another half: baked in chardonnay and smooth tunes.
She wrote about another half: full to the brim of ideas and opportunity, colours and numbers.
She wrote about another half that never bothered to write about her.
She stopped writing.
He thought she was a disco ball: a spinning beauty.
He waited for her to turn to him.
My better self smells like aftershave, the expensive type from the store with symbols as letters.
My better self talks with vindication and nods politely when it hears mistruths.
My better self drinks red, when it wants to drink black because it’s had a red day.
My better self sways a tired child to sleep, a moment to rest its own eyes.
My better self says yes when it feels like saying no.
My better self rests my head to sleep when I cry into its chest, that I have not done my best.
She carried the weight of the world on her shoulders so he carried her in his arms. Weightless in his embrace, she had the strength to kiss his lips: he too became weightless.
She glued eggshells on her heart so as no one could see it was broken.
She covered her mind in eggshells so as no one could see it was cracked.
She fastened eggshells to her shoes in an attempt to tread lightly.