Saturday

1. Spasmodic kicks into the waking world. This blanket just won't lay right.
2. Downstairs, the futon is cold but comfortable. Breath slows, eyes close, and you're gone.
3. Voices drop suddenly in the doorway. Guilt creeps in, prods you into consciousness.
4. And back in your room, back in your bed, back of his head, his neck, his cheeks and chest, you torture the innocent. Shove him straight into Saturday.
5. Sticky bits of cinnamon stray beneath your nails and Goddamnit. You hate having hands.
6. Moss peels easily from the trees. Releases swarms of tiny insects that flee to your elbow for safety.
7. Just outside the fitting room, the little girls throw their shoulders back, stand too tall, wear clothes meant for women. Their 6th grade secrets hang loose from gangly limbs.
8. Strangers sway and scream, give in to nervous laughter when the washboard lights on fire.
9. All spikes and skin, the jacket hangs heavy. But the pressure feels warm, right, safe.
10. Everything muffled and ringing.