Sunday

It is a Sunday, And like every Sunday, I am spending one seventh of an unwritten eulogy perching my pyjama ridden backside on gory grandma petals, That engulf me. It is all I can do to make my lungs perform their only function, Their ins and outs catch in my throat like bee stings, Which is all that keeps me awake. Before me, Flashes of dead stars and shiny cars, Seep from box to brain, In an acidic, off green shade of motivation. The door is open just a crack, The light is a fly, Sucking the blood from the corner of my eye. I should open the door, Let light drown me in yesterday's sentiment, Or close it, And sink into sofa creases. But Sunday's glue keeps me here.