Plastic Forked

I wake up and I’m sore – so sore.

Mind groggy. Exhausted. Spent. Done in. Wiped. Had it. Finished. Where did that bruise come from? And that scraped knuckle? What was I doing yesterday?
I was making mountains.
All day long.
Out of anything that came my way.

Now where did I move those mountains to, anyway?
Oh, yes.
There they are.
Right where I left them…on my shoulders.

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