I‘m scared. I remember all the mornings that I woke up with a sense of impending doom, with the feeling of a 1000 wasps droning in my throat, the fear of having yet another breakdown sting me, the pressure to succeed strangling me. I’d die of the anaphylactic shock of having to go but not wanting to. The first rays of the sun would come searching through my window, and caress me as I burst into flames.
The only thing that’d resuscitate me was an excuse to not head out. The only thing that would put out the fire was my duvet.
There was a time that 7 am and I would never be in the same room.
Some are scared of the dark, because of what could hide under the bed or in the closet.
I was scared of the morning because my life was a nightmare that I only found respite from in my dreams.