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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