Lazy Sunday:

I am beyond the process of thinking and logic.

I am watching old re-runs of Pokemon, season one.

I am tired.

I am sad.

I am processing this information, but it appears not to be working.

It reaches 99%.

It reaches 99%.

It reaches 99%.

And it fails.

It always does.


Another Monday:

Another schoolday.

I wish it was not.

It is anyways.

Nobody ever listens to me.

Sometimes you do, though.

In fact, you listen to me and you talk back.

I tell you to come over and watch Pokemon with me.

And you agree.

It is the most beautiful thing to ever grace my ears.

I am this close to crying.


Tuesday Again:

Look, you say.

A kite.

A hot air balloon.

A tree.

We count blades of grass and tan underneath the sun.

We pretend it is not another schoolday.

We pretend we've gone to school.

We even come home on time, but our mothers know anyways.

Mine scowls at me.

I wonder if she can see.

But I'm not especially curious.


Wednesday (Wed-Nes-Day):

I go to school.

You don't.

In English, I daydream about Pokemon.

During gym, I pretend to be a Pikachu, and my other friends laugh and call me a retard.

But they love me anyways.

So they say.

You would get it.

You would see.

I know so, because you say so.

I am tired of this make-believe shit.

I want something real.


Comes Thursday:

I skip school and play hooky.

My stupid mother believes me and goes to work, guaranteed not to come home until six.

As always.

You text me while I lie in bed staring out the window.

(The sky is a sea of blue and whipped cream clouds.)

(The sun is white and warms my skin.)

(I am lazy and tired.)

where are you

I smile and stretch out my arms.

I sit up and I text back.


I go out and sit on the bench, dangling my legs, waiting for you.

I know you'll come.

You know you'll come.

I smile when I see you, and you smile back.


Then Friday:

My logic is flawed.

I see, and you see, but do we really look for what we want to see?

My friends (who love me and think I'm a retard) put a hand on my forehead and ask if I'm sick.

I tell them I am. (Sick of them.) (But that part I do not say.)

I go to the nurse's office, and I lie down on the stiff make-shift bed.

The ceiling is white, tiled, spotted.

I count the spots.

I reach 99.

After fifteen minutes, I reach 442.

After twenty, a girl comes in with her limping bleeding friend and they usher me out.

I sit on a bench and pretend to do homework.

They can never tell anyways.


And Suddenly Saturday:

I think back to Pokemon.

I want you here, but you tell me that you're busy.

I know what it is you're busy with, but I don't say a thing.

Today is the only day you ever are unavailable to me.

Every other day, you're mine.

I hope you understand that every single day, I'm yours.

I want something real.

You know.

I don't know where I am going, and neither do you.

For that matter, neither does my mother, who only knows how to scowl these days.

But I know I'm going somewhere.

Sooner or later.

Just not today.


Back to Sunday:

Let's do it again.

i have no idea what this is about.

Prompts: who knows.
Characters: who knows.

exams are bitches ):