Queen of Getting Out of Bed

I am strong

-er than I was before

Curled up, shaking, on the floor.

Panic attacks that would make me weak.

Thoughts berate me, make me afraid to speak.


But I crawled off that floor, blew the covers off.

I rolled into those doors, unafraid if others might scoff.

I was the queen of that domain,

regardless of fame,

Queen of Getting Out of Bed

with a crown of messy hairs upon my head.


It's still hard, sometimes, and I stumble,

but I swallow my spit, refusing to crumble.

The floor calls my name, and I refuse to tumble.


Though sometimes you have to fall.

Crawl into your bed and hide.

But that fault doesn't make you.

That stigma doesn't take you.


You rise up, an undead queen,

the lean, mean, still working machine.


As long as you get up,

It isn't over.


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