It’s four twenty three am
I have to wake up in thirteen minutes.
It’s Sunday morning.
I find myself lying in a wheat field under the sun
Instead of inside a cold cramped church
With my head bowed to the wall.

Monday has never been kind.
It’s raining inside my purse
And my walls are covered in makeup.
And I begin to wish he would realize
How beautiful I think he really is.

I purposely forget to wear a bra of Tuesday
So I could feel the warm breeze on my nipples
And the tickle behind my chest.
I wanted you to see me, but the closet was too dark.
I’m sorry that I like feeling like a woman,
dressing up like a fairy
and having tea parties by myself.

On some Wednesdays, I sometimes forget the time
So I look at my naked wrist,
my scars tells me it’s five am.
I hope I remember to shower.

On this particular Thursday in June
I can see the Big Dipper from my window.
Can it see me?
I wonder if it gets so full of dreams
That it boils over.
But what happens to all those dreams that
drip out? Do they disappear?

The hose in the front yard reminds
me of that time at the zoo last Friday
And now that snake hissed at me
Saying I needed to let myself deflate.
I was a balloon waiting to pop.
I asked if he could use his fangs
And let the hot air seep from me.
He bit my neck instead.

It’s Saturday night and I think
It is beginning to snow in July.
I catch yellow snowflakes on my tongue
And remember how warm you feel inside my mouth.

I check the clock one last time,
It’s eleven fifty nine.
I hold my breath as the minute passes,
But the clock never changes.