*tw: homesickness, sadness*
I am filled with a loneliness that seems to arrive every Sunday. Sundays and loneliness appear to come hand in hand.
The lazy blue haze of Sunday is accompanied by being in a place you don't want to be, which is followed by a deep tiredness that consumes you and buries itself deep in your bones.
This fatigue is something that I experience every day, but Sunday and its sadness and its sloth and its soft sorrow amplifies it.
Melancholically kind songs fill my ears while the bittersweet sun shines through the curtain and I lie on a bed that is not mine with thoughts of being home.
Home has slipped between my fingers like sand. It is reachable but far away. Home is something that I know I will return to, but when? How long will I be filled with the tiring homesick lullaby of Sunday?
The clock ticks as slowly as it possibly can. My body aches with an intense need for rest but an inability to do so. Not here, it whispers, miserable and helpless. Sunday traps me here in a bed I do not want to be in, in a home I do not want to be in, with a family I do not want to see.
I await the swift sweetness of Sunday night, of tilting my head to the sky in awe, of searching for the three stars of orion's belt.
Then, at least, I will be home as the deep loneliness of Sunday creates a gaping hole in my chest and hollows out my heart. Then, at least, I will be in the comfort of my own clean sheets as I rock back in forth at midnight.
Then, at least, I will be able to cope with the way that Sunday always drains the energy from me, and I will collapse into a bed that is familiar and wake up to a home that is mine.
YOU ARE READING
recycled poetry
Poetry❝i wish i was writing something special, but these words have been used before and there's no originality to it at all. i'm just reusing phrases until they're worn out, like musty library books or hand-me-down clothes.❞ from ❛hand-me-down poetry❜ i...
