Autopilot

Some days

I wake already moving.

Body

ahead of spirit.

Feet finding the floor

before my heart

clocks in.

The mirror greets me

like a stranger—

who knows my face

but not my thoughts.

I nod.

We don’t exchange

much else.

The commute hums

the same tired hymn.

Brake lights blinking

like they’re bored too.

Radio voices

talking at me.

Not to me.

I ride the lane lines

like rails

laid long before

I arrived.

Work is a loop.

Emails.

Hellos.

Smiles practiced

just enough

to pass

for present.

My hands

do what they’ve been

trained to do

while my mind

drifts somewhere softer—

somewhere

unbothered.

Nothing hurts.

Nothing heals.

Nothing moves.

It’s not sadness.

That would require

feeling.

This is quieter.

This is

numb

with a paycheck.

I exist

between clock-ins

and clock-outs.

A Black woman

mastering survival

so well

it looks

like silence.

But even

on autopilot—

I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still becoming.

Even when

the day

forgets

to notice.