The floor is shiny

It’s really weird. I never clean it. It reflects the walls and doorways as if I polished it daily. As if the wax had just dried. Maybe it’s worn. Maybe there’s a stage of wear and tear, where you stop looking haggard and start looking polished. I wish that applied to everything. Sometimes I find myself staring into the mirror at a complete stranger. My mind doesn’t even register it’s me. I brush my hair only because it hangs in my face if I don’t. I want to get it cut but there never seems to be time to breathe. My lips are always chapped. They hurt. The lip balm is right there. So close on the counter…but it seems too far to reach. I’m so tired. If I could only just reach for it and put it on, I would feel bett…damn, I have to go. So many things to do. So many teeny, tiny things that would take seconds. Pick those clothes up off the floor, make the bed, clip my nails, brush the dog, clear those plates, blow my nose, sweep the floor, clip my nails, go to the bathroom, make the bed, clear those plates…someday my head will explode. That little man inside with the sledgehammer will finally overtake my defenses, and there will be nothing left of me but a horrible mess on the floor. I wonder who will clean it.