:thursday:

:thursday:

i.. i try to write like they write, but nothing half as good spills out. it’s a mess. spilled milk is all it is. just spilled milk. white and flowing and formless. flat.

my thoughts may be original but no one understands them. I don’t half understand them myself. maybe someday someone will.

someday someone. a someday someone. A wise one.

:friday:

why don’t they stop talking? it’s all useless, anyway. “talk about something that matters,” i want to say. but i don’t. never do.

and they all love me. and i can’t stand them all sometimes. someday someone will come and he’ll understand and i won’t have to explain. just look at him and he’ll know and wink and they will stare in ignorance.

i see it all. i like it all. only him, that is. he is all.

:saturday:

night is here and I welcome it, both arms flung back. pain often brings pleasure, they tell me. reminds me of a beatles song. i wonder if i’ll still believe it when they’re all dead.

of course they’ll die. everyone does. i will, too. and on my gravestone they’ll write when i came and when i left and something about me. and then someday, someone will stand over me and plant a flower in my head.

i’ll smile, i think. i won’t reach out, though. too much dirt between us for that.

:sunday:

there’s no rest. too many people needing wanting to do too many things. “go here,” they say. “come with us,” throwing a football into my chest.

i oomph but no one notices. she’s russian, they say. she’s used to it.

i smile but my chest cries. it’s not used to it.

:monday:

mondays remind me of my sister. she loved garfield and mondays always bear lasagna and blankets. they mix together sometimes, and then sleep doesn’t flow as well.

the dreams transform. the pillow isn’t soft anymore. and those shadows that they say are abranchadollastuffedanimal aren’t.

:tuesday:

maybe this should be my sunday. my day of rest. it really is. even the name, i mean. it’s not mean at all. very kind.

kind of like that pillow. it is soft again after everything reverts to gold. i can almost imagine that it is that someday someone who’ll plant flowers in my head.

i dig a hole later and tell mama i can dig better than the worms.

:wednesday:

i used to avoid poems that didn’t rhyme. my eyes refused to read them. then Mrs. Thomson showed me archy and mehitabel and now my eyes are fine.

i can even pound out some of my own, sometimes.

because that’s all i can do. pound them, i mean. it takes everything from you, those poems. everything.

:thursday:

one week in two microsoft word pages. how many pages would it take to write my life? there should be fresh fruit and book covers in the margins. and roller blades.

maybe someday someone will write a story about me in capital letters and correct punctuation and sentence structure. maybe my children will read it and call it a classic but forget that it was about me.

but the wise someone won’t. he wrote it, after all.