One for Every Day of the Week

By Alexia Tzortzis, TIWP Student


Whose eyes are a clear gray tinted in blue, black rimmed glasses frame her eyes as strands of her blond hair fall in perfect strands, escaping from the expertly created bun spiraled on the top of her head. Her make-up perfectly done, and her books stacked neatly in her bag. Her car is clean, neat, and she nags you about your clothes, your grades, your quirks and flaws. You are all too happy to leave monday behind.


Is tired. Tuesday is power naps and red bull in coffee instead of water. Tuesday is bleary eyes, and smudged mascara. Tuesday is every final and test rolled into one, tuesday is not caring anymore, tuesday is giving up. Tuesday is every depressing thought and song lyric the floats in your head. Tuesday pulls you down, and you are all too happy to swim back to the surface.


Is fields of flowers. Wednesday is curly brown hair and green plants. She is soft smiles and light jokes. She is quite, calm, quaint. Off white walls and soft humming. Wednesday is relaxing, she is caring, and loyal and funny. You never want to leave her, but soon her flowers die, and the clouds cover the sun. Wednesday doesn’t seem so perfect anymore, and you leave as quickly as you can escape from the vines that were slowly stealing your life to feed her.


Is eyes so blue you get lost in them. With pale skin and lips like the softest sand. She is the sea you so often visit with her, and all the magnificent creatures in her deep waters. Thursday is fun, splashing in the water and laying in the sand. She is quirky, with her different colors of water and the hidden shells in her beaches. But the ocean is not just playful, she is fierce, and harsh, demanding. And the woman who embodies her does not lose any of these defining qualities. You fight to be free of the rip tide, and almost give up before you are rescued by another. By Friday.


Friday is wild, insane, absolutely mad. She’s just what you needed. She’s the night that you dance through, the wind that whips around your face, and every impulsive decision you repress. She sets you free, in ways you never thought you needed. But like the best alcohol, she is your drug, and eventually, she starts poisoning you. Your nights are no longer fun, you no longer find that rush you once felt, you start dying. The alcohol, drugs and parties slowly killing you. She just laughs the whole time, and you wonder how you didn’t see it before, how she didn’t save you from thursday, she just dragged you to a new hell. She doesn’t have any feelings, just an empty bank account she used you to fill. You untangle yourself from her as quickly as you can.


Saturday is heaven compared to Friday. She’s green tea and lazy morning hikes. She’s truck camping on the side of a cliff looking over the sea. She’s laughing until two in the morning and campfire songs. She’s everything you needed after this long week. She’s spontaneous, flirty, and ferocious. She’s beautiful, but her campfire burns bright, and soon you have to shield your eyes. Her morning hikes get harder and harder to bear, and you desperately miss coffee. You leave the burning of her fires, though your sad to leave the brightness of her smile.

Then you meet Sunday.


How can you describe Sunday? She’s everything. She’s warm, soft, loyal, caring. She’s what you’ve been looking for in everyone else, and you wonder how you missed the soft stars that rest in her smiling eyes. She’s blueberry waffles and homemade whipped cream in a small garden. She’s sliding around the house in fuzzy socks. She’s singing while cooking in the mornings, and dancing for no reason. She’s splashing in the rain and snuggling under a fuzzy blanket in the winter. She’s hot chocolate when your bones feel frozen. She’s perfect. She’s what you need. She’s all you want. And as you stare down at her, wrapped in your arms on Sunday morning, the sun casting the room in gold, highlighting the blonde streaks in her honey hair, you smile, for what you feel in the first time since you were born. You smile, because Sunday, is yours.

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