Always working

Work is swallowing me whole

I’m devoured, kicking and stomping against the roof of its Victorian mouth

Stringy thoughts like syrup

Cling to colleagues and projects and deadlines

And weekends are hazy and jagged

Flooded with feelings of money earning, the grind 48 hours from now

An empty Saturday lends itself to too much time spent musing

With money churning in the background

Realising you’re a cog, small and insignificant

Working always, whether it’s at the 9 to 5

Or working on myself

Always ruminating, stalling, forgetting, planning

Sheets sodden with schedules and words

Blunt days off with no real purpose

Work thoughts pour in like post drought rain.

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 caf├ęs,

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.