Countertop

"Sometimes the hardest part is not the disaster, but the denial of rest after a day that never looked difficult to begin with."

Dec 14, 2025

The perfect tune to drink hot chocolate to. Or at least attempt it, before breaking down over how you will never get a day of peace, not in this lifetime.

Countertop

The glass gives up without drama.
A small, precise surrender.
One second it holds warmth,
the next it opens itself
against the granite,
brown sweetness spilling
where comfort was supposed to be.

It wasn’t meant to be this kind of day.
This was supposed to be gentle,
steam, elbows on the counter,
nothing asked of my body
except to exist.
A little bit of whipped cream on top.
But my muscles ache
like they’ve been carrying furniture
no one helped lift,
and even the simplest mercy
slips through my hands.

I stand there too long,
staring at the mess
as if it has committed a personal offense.
The silence tightens.
Anger arrives quietly,
sharp as the shards at my feet,
unreasonable and exact.
Really? Even this?

Then comes the guilt.
Swift, obedient,
for being upset over sugar and glass,
for wanting comfort
when nothing catastrophic has happened,
for daring to feel wronged
by a day that looks,
from the outside,
perfectly survivable.

I lower myself to the floor anyway,
back against the cabinet,
careful not to bleed.
The counter looms above me
like a witness that won’t speak.
My body hums with effort,
with the residue of endurance,
and I let myself sit
in the wreckage of something small
that was meant to help.

The chocolate cools.

The glass stays broken.

I ran out of whipped cream.

The day offers no apology.
And in the quiet,
that thin, accusing quiet,
I breathe through the truth
no one asked for.
Sometimes the hardest part
is not the disaster,
but the denial of rest
after a day
that never looked difficult
to begin with.