Switch.

Is this real?

Switch.

I keep seeing this image, right.

It's me.

Sitting in the windowsill of an industrial-style loft. My very own concrete jungle.

I'm holding this wonky, yellow, hand-made mug, courtesy of a friend's first pottery class. It's ugly and it's my favorite.

I've filled it to the brim with peppermint tea, as usual.

No sudden movements, or it's spillage village, as usual.

I can never tell if the Sun is rising or setting. It never matters. The sky is sherbet-flavored either way.

I can hear Miles Davis playing in the background. Just loud enough to guide my breathing.

I sit there and I think.

About how I keep seeing this image.

It's me.

Sitting in the windowsill of my Mother's one bedroom apartment.

surreal poetry
Funk Priestess
Funk Priestess
Read next: I'm Tired...
Funk Priestess

Let's all open our dictionaries, flip to "starving artist", there I am.

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