Daylight savings is curb stomping my brain
I ride through my days on a headache that morphs from my skull to my eyes to my scalp down my neck.
My stomach churns like I haven't slept, wants to eat my emotions like razor blades and popcorn.
9pm comes like a train screeching into the station, and the carpet calls me, rough and sturdy, to rest my face on it. It's closer than my bed, after all.
5am bluffs me awake, then smirks a red gleam through the dark: too early to get up, less than an hour left to sleep, dawn will come after that. Sucker.
But the early air smells like Spring, and the soft ground presses gently on my feet to promise grass will grow soon.
The night sky stretches over my mornings again, but the wind doesn't scrape like it used to.
Finally daylight slips over the horizon, reflected by office windows 20 floors up, bought at a price of bleary eyes and that hovering, dull ache. No refunds, just hope that Spring stays.
And I can always sleep on the train.

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