Monday

According to suicide statistics,

Monday is the favored day for self-destruction.

It's a week weak day, Monday,

holding the weight of Tuesday through Sunday on its broken back

wearing a torn t-shirt that reads “arbitrary beginning.”

Who named the days of the week, anyway?

Apparently, Monday was named after the moon

and the cops couldn’t decipher the cryptograms

serving as a cock-tease between its confirmed and suspected victims.

You see, last Monday, the Zodiac took route 132 on his way to hell

and graffitied my name on every highway sign from here to Modesto

and, damnit, I don’t want to die on a Monday.

Angels are commemorated on Mondays.

Muslims don’t eat on Mondays.

We are aligned with the celestial body on Mondays

and, Monday, you are yellow.

Next Monday, she will sleep in my bed and dream about undesignated timelines.

Her brain waves will radiate from here to Sutro and back again.

As she dreams, I will feel her heartbeat vibrate in my armpits

and I like the smell of her armpits when her body odor mixes with aluminum chloride.

The autopsy showed no signs of aluminum chloride or ethylene glycol or cyanide

so it must have been a broken heart.

It must have vacated its cavity when her bones shifted beneath the skin

and Monday must have claimed its seventh victim.

Well I think Mondays are pretty.

So maybe next week I’ll call her and ask her to close her medicine cabinet

or redirect the razor blades in order to reappropriate the day of the moon.

We’ll lay together in a bed of yellow rose petals

and we’ll invite everyone we’ve ever talked to

and everyone we’ve ever danced with

and everyone we’ve ever loved.

No one will speak a sound, but it will be so loud.

And in the last minutes of the first day of the week,

we will simultaneously raise our glasses because

“here’s to you, Monday — we think you’re pretty.”