April 21–22. How long? How long?

My headskin hurts. The tightness of drums, the noise of pain. Where I used to think, there is wrongness. Where I used to be quiet, the world is flooding in.


Monday’s child plays me tricks, bringing fire where I asked for water.


I am not the little girl, but I have her headache. Why do I flee the pain? How do I flee the ache? How can I shed this skin?


Tuesday’s child mocks me, laying traps, banging cymbals.


I was myself and I knew where I ended. I could carry my stillness anywhere. Now I cannot keep out the marching band, it is me.


Wednesday’s child waits out of sight for me, collecting sharp sticks.


I stand in the yard holding out my apron, waiting for the next word to fall from the sky. How long, how long? Is this why it aches, my drumskin skull?


Thursday’s child has the patience of angels, teasing me.


I feel my way forward. I am in the dark. I offer my arm, my foot, my belly. Anything to hurt, just not this brainpan, this central committee.


Friday’s child taunts: the weekend, the weekend is coming!


Turn off the house. Turn off the hours. The machine is unwilling to stop. Can I turn myself inside out, walk away?


Saturday’s older, sadder child takes my hand, watches silently over me.


I am slowly new born, the world is gentle. The wheels of glass shards and misery roll off into the forgotten. I can taste poetry, eat sunshine, dream out loud in painless colors.


Sunday’s child leads me in a grateful jig. All the doors are flung open. Now I am the drum, the dance, the hammer. Now I play the tricks, lay the traps, chant the taunts. Oh I am the world I was fighting, and nothing hurts.


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