On Sundays
Content warning: discussions of eating disorders.
On a Sunday, I peeled a pomegranate,
It wasn’t a special pomegranate, just the kind you find at farmer’s market,
And there were sardines in a tin can,
But I never got to eat them,
They lay on the counter for days until, eventually, the pomegranate started to rot, and the sardines went bad,
And I lay on the floor staring at the ceiling,
I was proud that I hadn’t touched them,
Their taste still lingered in my mouth; it wasn’t sweet like I remembered,
It was bitter and terrible,
I never went to the farmers market anymore,
I never bought sardines in tin cans anymore,
And always refused pomegranates.
And as I lay on the floor with the rotten pomegranates and sardines next to me,
I felt myself wither away, too.
Support
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