You are Monday.
Every Monday I have ever known is in your kiss
and Monday clings between the pages.
You are every late-night-walking-home
fear of assassination I have ever risked.
You are every strand of lace;
each lipstick print I have ever left;
every wisp of cigar smoke and cherry bite
and the feeling of an absence at my hand.
This is Monday,
like every day is Monday, clawing at my
throat like the pretty little daemons
that have swollen at my heart and chewed away
until I’m raw again.






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