My day of rest—
a 24 hour period of remembering why
our connection was lost,
After 6 days of relentless longing
for what we were—
My once-a-week return to the path
of the "straight and narrow;"
I’m looking for someone different
but clinging on to someone the same.

My day of rest—
I wish it were actually restful—
shut away in a far-off room, withdrawn,
sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the floor,  
amongst the dust beginning to settle.
Rattle, rattle, squeak, squeak—
I hear your ugly whispers float
through the keyhole;
I feel them brush against my skin.
Hesitant, dreading,
I wait until your footsteps are just the echoes of our memories parting.
You chose to parade the streets with your rebel flag held high;
I chose to hitchhike on an abandoned railway
with my dignity wrapped in red
tied to a stick thrown over my shoulder
because my cross got too heavy
and this is all I have left to hold on to.

My day of rest—
Shattered as suddenly as the window
you swung through to enter
My meditation room.
At this point it would be nice to have a panic room
full of pills and the liquor needed to wash them down.
My only exit is through the door I swallowed the key to
So I escape with my head in my hands,
my arms folded around my knees,
Wishing upon the starless night that,
At worst, the roof would collapse on you
and crush all the hopes, promises, memories that
today I regret or,
At best, that you will disappear, being merely an apparition,
haunting every breath I shake through my lungs this day.

I sob
Yes, I sob
Like a bulimic purging her system of consumed poison,
I get rid of the venom that is you.

You were closer to my heart
than the color is to my skin
But with a little fire, bravery, and surgery
All that can be rearranged.
And on this final day of rest
I sterilize myself and lie on the table,
all my prayers written in a flat line.