Sunday Fundays are too sweet chocolate fudge ice cream topped with a mountain of Things To Be Done and a cherry (my heart, waiting for anxiety to sink its teeth into) and a handful of Depression Sprinkles.
Sunday Fundays have me retching up in my throat when i remember of how much i am not. i have been depressed and anxious for two and a half years, but they have not made themselves home in my mind. instead they thrash around in my head with increasing fervor and every breath i take is punctuated with a sharp punch of self doubt to my gut, word swords slicing my flesh apart.
Sunday Fundays are cold and smooth on my tongue until the crippling fear strikes and leaves my tongue frozen. my words won’-
watch the world whirl by, hold my broken boned arms up and whisper from cracked lips like shattered yellow porcelain,
have your good day but please, will you help me find mine?
the silence kills my soul.
sundays are for rest: only if you plan to sleep forever