The alarm clock is a lie

The alarm clock is a lie.

The real one is the floor.

Bare foot, blind reach, a stumble

from the mattress’s dip.

Contact. Shock. That linoleum,

ugly pattern, even uglier cold.

Goosebumps rise, an army of tiny bumps

along my instep, up my calf.

A silent scream before the coffee.

It’s a slap awake, a betrayal

from the ground itself. No gentle easing.

Just the hard, undeniable proof

that another day has landed.

And I am here, still, stuck to it.