Sorry for double-posting this on my poetry blog, to those of you who follow both.
Sometimes, entire days feel like walking through a narrow brick tunnel. The morning hurts most, but you get used to it quickly. By midday, you will be covered in small scratches and scrapes. Your elbows get so sore that by four, you know if you fell you would scarcely be able to hold yourself up. You watch the ground, knowing if you’re left to crawl you’ll never make it out alive. By seven you’re nearly home but now even your face is scathed: you are scared you’ll never be able to explain exactly where it is you’ve been all day. By eight you’re out of the tunnel, in front of the TV and everyone is wondering (but nobody asking) why your hair is unkempt and a fine tear of blood runs from your temple to your chin. By nine you’re in the bath contemplating the fresh scars, thinking that tomorrow cannot possibly be like today. That surely one person can only walk through so many tunnels. And by three a.m. You are resource-stripped, lonely enough to call a stranger who will tell you that a hot milky drink will dull the steel precision of your pain.