Clear as Dishwater

Most Days

Some days are just bad days. Really bad days.
the ones where i hold my breath under the shower tap just a little longer,
Where i count the time between the growls my ever starving stomach produces.
Where the slight unsettling look i hardly received intentionally becomes relapse fuel.
And nothing, not even the rain, can lift me from my mattress, for the roots of deeply driven sadness are tangled mercilessly.
But those are just some days.
But then those some days turned to most days and most to every.
But everyday became harder.
And some days were good. Really good.
The kind where even floating seems realistic,
Where the falling sun's light catches otherwise unseen corners of your life.
And everything, even the stray sad thought, felt completely right.