Typical Week by Gabrielle Galchen (17, New York)

Monday:
He wakes up early 
to prepare for existence; 
beginnings reek fresh upon his tongue
like a wavering butterfly  

Tuesday:
Futures greet him like salespeople:
they open smiling mouths soundlessly;
when he tries to learn their secrets 
he wonders if they’re meant to be heard

---

Wednesday:
He lies on the ocean floor,
searches the surface for black sun;
he will either swim up 
or sink

Thursday:
If all he sees is an end
is he living under the wrong telescope?
or is enjoying the right here, right now 
but a liar’s technicality 

Friday:
watchdog guarding all his lost time,
nostalgia barks into his chest;
perhaps he aches for figmented roses 
but they smell too sweet to stop

Saturday:
He dreams of old lovers blurred gray
as tarnished cutlery 
but the moment their lips touch
the paradise disintegrates 

Sunday:
He must clean out his hairbrush;
he pretends each strand is a discarded memory;
the bristles gleam black
like concrete to structure him differently 

Everyday:
unpeeling the onions, 
layer 
by
layer

​