Saturdays make me feel weird.
Like I want to smear the red lipstick
I’m not wearing
All over my face.
And scream.
And shed my skin.
And run.
And keep running.
Until I reach the edge of the water.
And walk into the waves fully clothed
And swim.
And keep swimming.
Until I can’t swim anymore.
And I sink slowly to the bottom
In a holographic bubble
Like I imagine Esther Williams would,
If she wasn’t dead.
Until Sunday.
Sundays are for rest.
For sitting on the couch
In coffee-stained dressing gowns.
Watching the Crime Channel
And eating neon coloured snacks
And High Fructose Corn Syrup.
Mondays are a beginning.
A start.
A capital letter.
Mondays have purpose.
Somewhere to go.
Someone to be.
Even if it’s just to the mailbox.
That might have mail that didn’t come on
Sunday.
Tuesdays carry the momentum of Monday.
Until it meets Wednesday.
Neither here nor there.
Just so.
Thursdays feel like
A nearly there.
An almost there.
Just a little bit longer.
Fridays
They still have that feeling.
That feeling that is inexplicably Friday.
A Friday feeling.
Then comes Saturday.
To suffocate me once again.
By S.J. Williams
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