"Ponder the path of your feet, and let all your ways be established."

I feel like this week is eating me up, and bottling me up, and washing and wishing me along, down to the place where I don't do my laundry, up to the full breadth of my stomach, across, against, against.

Back and forth as I sing along, wear my happy face, my insensitivity up my shirt - it always tingles up my neck and makes my face uncomfortable; it throws me into battles where I conquer conversations and throw my body onto each person I know better than "hello."

The days they remind me of everything missing, and I'm anxious about things never to be, soon approaching discomfort to be; I shriek and submit, claw and submit, and sink soothingly, I've convinced myself.

The tables, the chairs they hold me captive, comfortably for an hour each while I relax my tense shoulders from the days of preparing them for all things efficient, and I hate this fulfillment that I love, and it's stupid that the world rotates around pain, until it slows to a stop at achievement, the days should adjust to an opposition.

And I wrack and they wrack and spurt out all over, spill out onto the floor, all over me - all over myself, and I'm helpless, they don't see it; I feel the force of books and I feel the waves of the conversations lap right, below, my mouth, near my chin. Right below.

The days make me force, they are all that I have, and I discontinue as much as I can, as it all feels too unnatural, the way that anyone dresses and mingles and cooperates, while the days bring them some stricken satisfaction, or in some cases, unfound satisfaction, and I'm still stuck in the middle.

This week is every week, and every measurement that paces each step, each determined step, each faltering, they are convoluted with the concept of the mouth, in every person I meet and know for a unit of time, and feel united with; I sleep, and I'm haunted, by the week.

Proverbs 4:26