Sundays are for football, and crocheting scarves we will eventually hang on the shelf. Never once have I reached a Sunday and felt entirely good about me.
Usually, the day consists of moping and recollecting all of the mishaps and misfires, toggling with stones in my hand, rekindling a flame that burnt out and recalling that I am not a test in need of taking.
I'm just a woman with a lot of thoughts, and a bottle of wine in her hand. And some days I think I'd rather sip on this glass than remember every horrible thing that has ever happened to me.
I think I'd rather uncross my legs, and become the person I speak of so fondly. I guess that's just the curse of being sad and writing poetry.
You never entirely become the person you wanted to be.
I stare out of the window as I remember, that I'm not at a crossroads in life, no, I am on the road.
I am the ash cross on my own forehead, a collection of sins and unwritten novels that collect dust on the shelf in my head.
I cry on Sundays, but I am afraid of nothing. I just think that's something we should do every so often. Cry, and weep for ourselves. For all the shit we carry throughout the week.
It's the least we can do, mourning the half-dead, and crying wolf in the night for all of the dreams we failed to obtain.
Sombre is not the word I would use to describe these Sundays.
That isn't the kind of description I want to leave in my wake.
I would want it to sound more like, " she wasn't at peace with all of her failures, but she was restless like the moon. I think that's why she wrote about the rings of Saturn hovering around her like heavenly water in a swimming pool. She did not die a victim, nor a monster in any case. She was simply a myriad of mistakes. A mosaic of decisions any restless woman in her 20's was bound to make."