Monday:
I wrote you a letter and never sent in because I didn't have any stamps or hope left
Tuesday:
I burned my hand on the stove trying to make green tea because I remembered how much you hated it and how I stopped drinking it and I shouldn't have hated green tea because I loved you
Wednesday:
The shower was too cold or too hot, but never quite right and that made me think of you
Thursday:
I cut my hair. Nearly all of it. I held it my hands and it felt like I was forgiving myself. Like I had forgiven you when you made me cry on my birthday and didn't deserve it.
Friday:
I called your house and your mother picked up. I faked an accent and said it was a mistake.
Saturday: You’re probably out at some stranger's home lying about your age and smiling at a lonely, end-of-the-road girl. I was that girl, I want to warn and kiss and cry for every girl you’ll love. I hope she leaves you flawed, lovesick and cynical. I wrote you six poems and showed up at your door in the middle of the night. You blew smoke at how empty I was, filled me with some false security. I've burned every poem.
Sunday:
I still miss you, but it is 2 in the morning and how long can someone wait? Are you in bed? Are you okay without me? Does your mother ask where it is I've gone? I don’t care. I don’t care because I gave you my world and all the other stupid things you've let collect dust and you've given me pain like a toothache and a heart like an abandoned home.