These Sunday blues


Earth and existence fenced by headboard

and footboard


yet contained

she sprawls

soft sheets carving grooves like sequoia


A web

her breast marked by sleep


Dampened cloth like quitting, manifest

clings to her back

in veiled despair

A chrysalis

Stuck between self care and self hate

hips in horizontal sway

with her left hand

Running down her cheek that salty stream

brims with god knows what

just in time

She had almost forgotten how to feel

And so came to anticipate

these Sunday blues.

by Clementine Yost ©

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