a (good) mourning

sunday mornings always seem to begin the same way,
tasteless mouths, unruly hair, & the lack of will to go on.

stumbling my way into my (old) favourite grey dress my stomach begins to cry. ignoring the tinge of scarring pain i attempt my way up the stairs. i know i have to be out the door in ten minutes, i know i need to do my hair, and for christs sakes i took my medication.

being in moving automobiles:
" i was never really any good at being in cars. "

my insomnia is beginning to consume me, my eyes lay awake as my brain sways left to right. i'm afraid they'll give me anti-psychotics when i go see my therapist. i don't want to tell them why the bags under my eyes are so immense. although, i've never been one to sway from the truth.

getting to work only two minutes late; i can feel my stomach churning & turning.

attempting to read the brilliant words from my novel, i can feel the vomit approach. refusing to allow it to escape my mouth, i opt to make a coffee, which i undoubtedly need to coat my acid ridden stomach walls.

oh & the coffee was delicious.