I thought I had nothing to give. I cried for what I had lost. The trees, the birds, the sky for years were ignored by me in lieu of sitting and doing everything except what I wanted to do. If I went out, it was after the sun had gone down. I would dance, drink, laugh and, again, add to the haze over anything real that I no longer wanted to feel. Inject that anesthesia. Turn on the smoke machine.

In time, a song would come on the radio or the jukebox and I would melt right there where I sat or stood. The words and the music would remind me of a time when someone had cut out a piece of my heart, or, like a cannibal, had chosen a part of me to be his dinner, next to a nice herb and butter risotto and a glass of Prosecco.

Now I wake and no matter how I feel, I open the shade while it is still dark, in order not to miss the rising of the sun.

a day is a gift
your smile, a wrapped package
starve the cannibals