Saturday, that is. Ryan Johnson

I hated that day-Saturday, that is--

Because it was the wooden swing on a poor child’s playground. This was supposed to be fun. Why am I so splintered? And the nights-Saturday nights, that is--

Were spent in an empty tub with a stomach moaning hallowly

And the layer of oil that formed between beige feet and soap scum. And the hours-Saturday hours, that is--

Were contumelies Loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud, loud I didn’t even bother to scream The noise might get inside of me then And the minutes-Saturday minutes, that is--

Always lasted 84 seconds because that’s what the timer would say when I measured How long could I press a pillow to my face before lung’s instincts overcame mind’s will And the seconds-Saturday seconds, that is--

Murderous increments, I will spare you the details. Maybe instead, I will tell one good thing. Saturday seconds were linear, not cyclical. A second passed is a second gone. And if Saturday’s taught me one thing: what is gone is never coming back Not ever