Sunday - A Poem for the Start of Every Single Week.

Sunday - Victoria Fedden

This is the week I will stop being disgusting. This is the beginning of my story, not the end.

This is the week I’ll give myself a second chance.

This is the week that I will drink enough water. This is the week I will learn to drink tea with no milk and sugar. This is the week I’ll take it plain.

This is the week I will try apple cider vinegar.

This is the week that I will meal prep. I will pull my dinner in a box from the shelf like a library book I will eat without complaint because food fuels your body like books fuel your brain and macros but poetry is what taught me how to feel something not think something.

This is the week the blackberries won’t rot in the crisper.

This is the week that I will fit into those pants. This is the week that I’ll do it.

10,000 steps every day. This is the week that I will work out.

This is the week that I will have all the parts of the eating disorder instead of just the endless thinking part.

This is the week that I will reduce my screen time, and stop looking for and at and wishing and wondering and searching. This is the week that I will stop thinking about you.

This is the week that I will be brave. Try new things. It will be better. Step out of the comfort zone, out of the box, out of the bed and girl, wash your face, and maybe someday someone will think you’re pretty. Be a bad ass. Go to war. Unjunk your spirit. Subtly don’t give a fuck. Get unstuck. Follow your bliss. Find that big magic. Enormous magic. Magic the size of the universe magic. Take an entire course in miracles, make the agreements. Stop resisting. SOULdier on. Just breathe.

This is the week that I will observe my breath. Start saving money, pay off the debt, go to the bank, assess the situation, plan, make spreadsheets. Take control.

This is the week that I will relax.

This is the week of a radical shift.

This is the week that I will finally speak up and ask clearly for what I want, but I will also stop talking about myself so much because that is awkward. Am I a narcissist? Am I a sociopath? Where does the trauma hide inside my body? Have I been gaslit? Each night why do I dream of voodoo?

This is the week I’ll find some piece.

This is the week I’ll stop forgetting the wet laundry in the washer. This is the week I’ll remember.

This will be the week TO remember.

This is the week I’ll go out, make friends, make out, shine, sparkle, be present, in the moment, have a drink. This is the week they’ll all get my jokes.

This is the week I’ll break down and take a pill. This is the week I’ll stop the medication, yes I know it’s only for heartburn.

This is the week that something’s got to give. This is the week it all stops. That’s why I’ll start writing again, reach the muse. Where have you gone? Why don’t you text me anymore?

Sometimes in the middle of the afternoon I will stop what I am doing which is never anything and I will go outside and look at the sky and wonder exactly what you are doing at that exact moment and what did you do with my ideas? Where are my words? Who holds them now? And I will make demands. The bullshit stops here. Give me back everything I’ve ever lost.

I used to think you were so beautiful.

This is the week that I will show up and throw down. This is the week that my ass is in the seat.

This is the week I’ll be results-driven. I don’t even know how to speak the language of synergy’s optics in the new millennium. Ambition. I can learn.

This is the week I’ll get enough sleep.

This is the week I’ll learn to let go. This is the end of the stories I tell myself. The stories have to end. The stories never end. The stories have no end. This is not the end.