Sundays have been hard on her

days of resting are unsettling

she knows Monday is right around the corner

it’s a day worse than Sunday

she calls this day the “Sunday blues”

a day in which she mourns Mondays

she talks to nobody

she sits alone, tears streaming

time heals all wounds, she repeats to herself

yet time has passed, and she’s still here

she’s still mourning Mondays

she’s still asking why

go for a run

get ice cream

sing

read positive psychology

she tells herself things that may help

but she does nothing

instead she sits

instead, she sits and writes poems about Monday

Monday comes and more tears stream

she writes a poem on her pillow in mascara

she asks God why this happened

there is no answer

she keeps telling herself that time heals all wounds

time passes and the wound hasn’t healed

yet, something is changing

something is different on Sundays

she still cries

she still sits alone

she still has this wound

but she has no expectations

Monday comes and she’s ready

she’s ready to cry

she’s ready to let herself really mourn

as she does, she feels the warmth of her smile again

she holds herself

she whispers gently

that it’s okay

that it’s okay to cry

~