Who cares if it's Monday and it's 2pm
You're on my mind and on my skin
You're gnawing at my bones
Eating through my brain
It's 2pm on a cold Monday
And I miss you.

Monday,
The first time of the week,
Where I start to feel weak,
People pass by,
Without looking at me in the eye,

Tuesday,
I feel better now,
I wish I knew how,
So I could do it once more,
When I start to feel like a bore,

Wenesday,
The pain is back,
I would’ve stayed in bed this morning,
Today I lack,
Of the thirst to be learning,

Thursday,
I’m almost done with this series of seven days,
But everything in my mind is like a maze,
I can’t find the end of it,
Just like I can’t seem to fit,

Friday,
I’m almost out of school,
I’ll get rid of these fools,
I’ll feel better once I’m home,
I won’t be in the corridors I usually roam,

Saturday,
I forgot about my problems at home,
I forgot my dad likes to hit my mom when she’s alone,
I feel my world tumbling down,
With nobody to help me around,

Sunday,
Soon I’ll be back to school,
Surrounded by the same fools,
I don’t have any control,
Of my heart or my soul

Yesterday,
I felt like my troubles were so far away,
Like I had a chance at feeling better for a day,
My past keeps haunting me,
It probably will be like this for an eternity,

Today,
I can’t seem to enjoy anything,
It’s really annoying,
I wish I could just smile,
For a while,

Tomorrow,
I’ll continue to procrastinate,
And hope for something better,
And hate my fate,
When it’ll think “whatever”,

My days seem to pass me by,
And I’m a day closer,
To the day I die.

The door,
the same old door
open and unlocked,
you sit on the couch,
the one you slept on for
six years.

In the flames tonight,
the smell of burning will be back
but this time,
it is welcome.

The cabinets,
the dishes,
they are all broken
and I am standing on shards of porcelain
piercing my feet,

in fear of more pain,
we stay where we are

you, on the couch
and me, on the plates.

welcome home.

I wanna marry a man who isn’t really
a man, but the illusion of one,
he’s actually just a cut out,
and I want to write his name in my
blood on the church so that God
knows
that I am okay alone.

And I’m tired of checking up
on how you’re doing,
because you probably don’t think of
me.

We sit on the fire escape at dawn,
my cardboard husband and I,
and we smoke cigarettes
and he burns a little
because paper is flammable.

When the sun comes up,
I feel you.
Landslide, land mine, landline, and
the burns on my tongue.

Bitter coffee and it’s not so bitter
compared to the taste of the spiders
crawling from my mouth,
and when I think of you


...You probably don’t think of me.

I’d write your name on the church,
but I don’t have enough blood for
two names.

So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild ****." By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.