Saturday is the Most Poetic Day of the Week

Saturday is the most poetic day of the week.

Wake up: hit the snooze
at least five times.
Told myself
to wake up early
and get a workout in
before the sun notices breath,
the frigid exhale of a cold bedroom
because the heater turned itself off.
Yet here I am quarter past ten
in the morning and I close
my eyes again.
Something itches.
My allergies act up -
the cat must’ve crawled in my bed unknowingly cause I’m covered in hives.
Shower off the reaction and react to social media in the mean time.
Third time this week someone tells me, “there’s a fake profile of you out of the city”
Replying to false nudes and fake voices
Is like waiting for the green light at an intersection
With nothing but stop signs and someone flipping you off behind your back.

Some other guy sees abs,
replies with a c**k shot,
as if a shirtless picture
is asking for every guy
to come f**k me,
even though they can’t
even stay hard in person.

Give. Me. A. F*****g. Break.

Truth be told
I’m refusing your used up cigarette,
A fickle f*g fondling fractured falsettos,
Because my voice remains imperfect.
Cracked. Damaged.
Still healing, always raspy.
A dry cough echoing
the sounds of a crumpled Doritos bag
still hungry for more.

I guess I’ve become the used up cigarette
In which nobody emptied
the ashtray for,
Now collecting rain water,
and reminiscing within mouldy memories.

Forgive me for my explosion
of f**k you’s and woe is me.
I am not a traveller looking
for a trail to follow.
I am a runner
against the current, so
When the fifth guy
this month
blows me off
By blocking me on every social
After agreeing to
going out for brunch,
I’ll take it as a sign
from the universe
That I’m supposed
to be alone right now,
As if the opening rain clouds never sanctified me
All in the
name of false romanticism.

All this worship talk has got me
running towards the lake,
where ocean meets sky,
And I’m supposed to be okay
with the distance,
As if I’m supposed to accept
the fact I can’t touch anything tangible.

My response?
“F**k off why don’t ya.”

I follow the road
into a thicket of bushes,
pushed forward, and caught
the sun f*****g the moon doggy style,
And I couldn’t help but feel
disgusted at the sight
Of a homeless man jerking off
to the vision of an eclipsing pornography,
And my eyes are now filled with tears.

Not out of sorrow, but rage,
For if I cannot welcome
the mistress of misery
I shall succumb
to the royalty of rage,
Back to the night
I killed the old me,
Back to the night
I committed murder,
Back to the night
I changed my identity
to avoid trials of manslaughter.

After many footsteps and a short breathed pant,
I find myself
in an empty parking lot,
Listening to music on my iPod
as the rain opens up prayer,
And I dance like nobody is watching -
And I’ve never felt more free like this torrential downpour
Blessing me with the ability to dance in public.

So I guess the ghosts never mattered anyway, because let’s face it,
They’re jealous of the self love blossoming inside this storm, as if my veins
Are gardens of wilted flowers rising from the dead again.

I am no cemetery,
But I am tombstones
Now recognized as eulogies
For every time I’ve distanced myself
To the idea of ever loving someone again.

Even I’m confused by this poem,
Because Saturday is a coy lover.
He holds me in the morning,
Pushes me away in the afternoon,
And writes me a letter longing for love in the evening,
Then whispers hello as a flick a flame against cigarette,
As smoke escapes these cracked lips.
I expect him again the next day,
But I won’t see him for another 7 days.

On again off again lover.
Oh how I wait for you just to pretend you’re not even here.
On again off again lover.
Oh how I no longer expect you to knock on my front door.
On again off again lover.
Leave me off, an unchanged lightbulb flickering it’s final stanza.

When I count the times
I’ve been let down,
I can’t help but
follow the thoughts
Back to the night
of manslaughter and
criminal convictions.
My night terror reminds me
That this too will pass.

I am no longer washing
blood off my hands
For my skin has molded
into dry blood only seen beneath kaleidoscopes of my truth.

And my goodness,
does the wound ever heal beautifully,
but I’m
still waiting.

I’m still waiting.