top of page


Saturdays make me feel weird.

Like I want to smear the red lipstick

I’m not wearing

All over my face.

And scream.

And shed my skin.

And run.

And keep running.

Until I reach the edge of the water.

And walk into the waves fully clothed

And swim.

And keep swimming.

Until I can’t swim anymore.

And I sink slowly to the bottom

In a holographic bubble

Like I imagine Esther Williams would,

If she wasn’t dead.

Until Sunday.

Sundays are for rest.

For sitting on the couch

In coffee-stained dressing gowns.

Watching the Crime Channel

And eating neon coloured snacks

And High Fructose Corn Syrup.

Mondays are a beginning.

A start.

A capital letter.

Mondays have purpose.

Somewhere to go.

Someone to be.

Even if it’s just to the mailbox.

That might have mail that didn’t come on


Tuesdays carry the momentum of Monday.

Until it meets Wednesday.

Neither here nor there.

Just so.

Thursdays feel like

A nearly there.

An almost there.

Just a little bit longer.


They still have that feeling.

That feeling that is inexplicably Friday.

A Friday feeling.

Then comes Saturday.

To suffocate me once again.

By S.J. Williams


Recent Posts

See All



bottom of page