Tuesday

It’s Tuesday again. It always rains on Tuesday. I can’t beat time to the stairwell before it snatches my arm and pulls me back to sleep, a sleep that only haunts me, you know. When I don’t rest, I hold an old lantern up to a dirty mirror, to see my reflection with a rustic taste. I always cherished rustic things; they reminded me of autumn’s disposition. But when autumn comes, I feel sad. I bite the darkness, and cast my emotions to the night – like shadows. If I yell loud enough, someone will hear me, someone with a gentle voice. Autumn – curse thee! I stab another page, to see if it will weep or if the splattering ink WILL FORM a constellation. Maybe I should write more – or maybe I shouldn’t – maybe I should remain still. An eye is visionless to an empty world. I study karma with a kaleidoscope, friction with human agency. I was always shrewd with syntax. But too quick with words that when I fumbled my weapon, I’d either shoot my eyes out, or leave a disparate hole in the ceiling – perhaps one to crawl through and join the stars in quiet discussion. My negative adjectives get mistaken for pessimism; nobody knows that I smile when the sun dies. Sometimes I laugh at its diligence – feral audacity, as its fleeing orange fingers release the horizon. Maybe I think about death too much - or not enough, for it made the greatest poetry. Sometimes my thoughts are unsafe. Convincing myself I’m real is always the most difficult part: skeleton, muscle tissue; I pinch my skin when I forget. But I don’t forget as much as I used to. I wish I could remember in dreams - maybe they wouldn’t be so scary.