Weak Monday The pupil opens up, exploding to a full-blown eye. (A knowing eye.) It chills me. Around my face, hair moves, a twisted halo, tickling, come to tease and torment, big brother to my baby sister. # Tuesday (If you would let me I would type your words for you.) # Wednesday A cool, sandless sheet. But a sheet cannot keep you warm. It can only absorb your sweat and keep you dry. # Thursday But the gulls are in constant motion, crying. They are crying always. Lonely and maligned, they are unhappy birds, the gulls are.
Friday Would I notice that outside it is still and calm and there is a fineness to the air? Would I notice that there is a little bit of something that hangs in the atmosphere and shelters the light? That it cuts through slightly and softly and illuminates the floor of this van next to my feet bound together with duct tape? # Saturday I say, Its all like one long dick shoved into the back of my throat. And mop up the renegade piss on the floor. The water, black with dirt, ash, beer, blood, swirls like a tidal pool. I inspect
it for life. # Sunday I want them to notice me, to want to be me. I do want their envy. I say: I want it because I am a grackle, a sandless sheet, a halo, a stain on the floor. I want it because I am a stolen girl. I want it because I am weak.
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