flash by flawnt

Every morning this same set of choices: to eat or not to eat. To drink or not to drink. And how much. To shit or not to shit (no issue with volume there). To smoke or not to smoke (you still with me?) And moods! Go down in flames like a cleansing Guy Fawkes fire or hold my breath indefinitely as we all learnt to do it, years at a time, swallowing sarcasm. Uncomfortable morning truths: I’m not a bird. I feel my bones, every one of them, nasty needles . I can fly but I must write my own wings first. Shall I touch the tender spot above my April blooming heart for help?