Too Late To Go Back To Sleep

Today I do not feel pretty even though I washed my hair.

I greatly dislike this, but have some poetry:

The pavement is uneven. Not cobble stones, great big slabs of pavement.
I start counting them as I walk along. I try not to step on the cracks.
Black bricks. A pub. I wonder if she ever went there alone. A couple lean against the wall and smoke and talk. I look back at the floor.
I must cross the road. Stop and look both ways. Parked cars along one side, their number plates all facing the same way.
I step down the curb. It’s slightly icy in the road, where no one has walked yet. Dotted lines.
I reach the other side unharmed.
Little houses with picket fences. It would be delightful if it wasn’t for the graffiti everywhere.
Little gardens with little ponds and little gnomes.
I pass a row of shops. A florist that will look so pretty, full of tulips, later, when the sun is shining.
But now, the shutters are drawn. I’m glad it’s early, and I’m gad I’m alone.
She lives above a shop. I do too.
A red door beside a newsagents. The paint is peeling and the door frame is old.
I am made to take my shoes off.

-Dagger.