The Drunk Dance of Motherhood

It's past 1:30am and I'm still awake. 

There's an intricate dance I do. One that involves fluid movements that pull my body to and fro as the music calls to me. 

While the reminder of my sleeping child sets me on edge. 

My body slides from the couch to the floor, making me feel as though I am one with the sound, yet the constant thought that my neighbors hear me drives me to try my best not to make a noise. 

I restrict myself to soft falls and internal cries.

My child sleeps, but he will wake in the morning. 

I am not only my self. I can never be my self again. No, I am mom and me. I am daughter and me. I am wife and me. 

Stuck between me and what I think I should be. 

My drunken self stretches me out and my mind imagines me as a dancer whose body can contort. 

But I know that isn't true. 

In the morning, my body will remind me that it has muscles, everywhere. 

I will learn that more muscles exist than I thought did when I was in my 20s.

I am not what I think I am.

I am the body of a woman aging and the mind of a woman striving to exist in a plane that only death acknowledges. 

I am mother. I am drunk.