Sundays are the worst.

That choking pre-work anxiety

Creeps in like Sunday doom.

Rain spits at window panes

And boots line up by the front door,

Caked in mud, smothered by weekend walks

And forest frolicking.

That insufferable discomfort

Of wanting to do everything and yet nothing at the same time

Creeps in like Sunday doom.

Hours in front of the TV feel wasteful,

Next to the promises of Instagram’s brunches,

Bottomless, boozy and bubbly –

Outings with the #girls.

Gym trips, sweaty brows,

Abs everywhere you turn

And asses everywhere you swipe.

They swap the cardio for avocado

And weights become waits,

Long ones outside cafés,

Bruising noses up against glossy menus

And fighting for seats beneath rainbow parasols.

Summer Sundays suck

Unless you’re chugging prosecco

And scoffing smashed avo.

2 thoughts on “Sundays are the worst.”

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