I always trudge along the same concrete pavement as I brave my way out of work.
But on Thursdays, my corned and wobbly feet tiptoe across a minefield - a mix of paperwork and social calls.
Vines of thoughts crawl out and sink their heavy words onto me like thorns that pierce and jab.
I come home extinguished, burnt when there's no fire.
I fall into bed, sore without a bruise.