Celia

Sometimes I’m Celia,
Other times I’m just C.
Perhaps on Fridays I’m Cee-Cee.
On Mondays I wonder, where’s me.
On Wednesday I’ll be crying,
On Thursday I’ll feel like dying,
It’s just my pillow and me,
A rock under my head,
My head mired in fog,
Fog swallowing me whole,
My whole divided into parts,
Parts of me drifting to where I cannot reach,
And where I reach is up a path,
A path so steep,
A perpetual mountain.
And if Luck is my friend, I’ll chance upon a plateau,
But Luck comes and goes, never in threes.
Still – the plateau I’ll take
Just for a while,
The sum of my parts rejoin
And I will be me.