Every day is a late Sunday morning

by Mary Lou

Time has become the sheet I’ve pushed to the end of my bed with my feet in my sleep
It is folded and scrunched up

I’ve slipped between the folds and I exist in a space where I’m frighteningly aware
of what’s going on in my house,
but I can’t find my way
out of the crumpled white cotton blend

I feel little motivation to unfold the layers above and around me because
I’ve slipped in so easily-

is there any point in resisting now that I’m here?

Every day feels like a late Sunday morning.
The day begins with high hopes that are then swallowed with coffee
By late morning I’ve realized my goals for the day were much too lofty

Do I give up now?
Is there any point?

2 hours contemplating whether I have the time to save this mess of a day

Existentialism and nihilism joined me in social isolation
It’s the late Sunday morning that never ends
Stuck between my bedsheets

But no one is coming to unfold the material from around me
untangle it from my kicking legs  
And tell me everything is fine
Or spur me into action
It’s been hours and I’ve drank far too much coffee for one
Sunday morning

That’s why I’m turning inwards
Sitting with myself
Feeling my forehead wrinkle in tandem with anxiety
My shoulders that roll forwards to look at each other with grief
But then
Feeling my breath that returns when my eyes meet scenes of solidarity and love
My mouth that widens when I read messages from friends
My mind that rests when I move and care for my body

Feel everything
Acknowledge everything
Sit with it. Feel it.
Accept it.
Then see where you want to make change
where you can
Change your world
See what you can do outside your world and in others

Because they need you out of your bed sheets 
It’s not Sunday morning
It’s Monday afternoon and there’s a long week ahead
And we will make it back to another Sunday morning.