i never planned to make this a routine.
but routines are just bad habits with prettier names.
and you—
you've always made the worst things feel like art.
so here we are.
again.
sunday.
my mouth tastes like guilt and vodka.
my head feels like it's been stepped on by all the memories
i tried to kill the night before.
i don't check my phone.
because maybe you posted again.
maybe you didn't.
maybe you sang another song in the kitchen
while your husband filmed it.
maybe your kid drew you with a crown
and captioned it "my hero."
i don't need that shit on a sunday.
but fuck—
i open it anyway.
your voice still lingers in the room
even if it's just a video from yesterday.
my name still isn't mentioned
but somehow it still fucking hurts.
i told Iris i drank too much.
i told her it's work stress.
she made me tea
like i'm still worth something.
and yet
all i could think of
was how you used to tell me
"hangover's not that bad if you've got the right person beside you."
you were never beside me.
but you made it better anyway.
and now…
sundays are just
my personal funeral.
weekly.
repeated.
mildly quieter than saturday.
but somehow,
a little more unbearable.