I Hate Monday

Monday

is

the busiest

day

of the week

a wayward strand of hair dangling in front of her eyes

red and rimmed with sunken blue

She’s always

running

rushing

toppling

never quite

stopping

for a breath of fresh air

never quite

pausing

to celebrate one more item scratched off her

ever-

growing

list

only wearing down her

grubby

pencil

to its tip

with her constant scribbling

She’s always panting

always heaving

never once believing

in her worth

never once smelling

the flowers on her path

never once tasting

the fruits of her labor

She is misunderstood

They think her clumsy

when she trips on her mile-long list

legs twisted on her tasks

face planted in the fabric

of her constant worry

they think her rude when she

never

comes

to

parties

but what

they

don’t

know

is that it is her back that

cracks and

bends and

wavers with

tasks and

assignments and

Pressure

When she falls they think her weak when really she is

tired

tired of being awoken at the crack of dawn along with the

blue birds

tired of the constant questions,

Why

Monday?

Tired of the constant complaints

When they groan

When they moan

I

Hate

Monday