The Girl Who Ran With Wolves

I will not have you without the darkness that hides within you. I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me. If our demons cannot dance, neither can we.

1. Monday is a monster and he treats you like a ghost. “What do you think you’re doing, girl?” he says. “I could love you but it would be a waste of time.” Monday comes when you have nowhere to run, he says, “Get your hands dirty in me. Call my name, I’ll send you home nothing but a pile of bones.” Monday is hungry, only kisses with teeth. 2. Tuesday tries to be gentle but has hands like your father’s. Tuesday is getting too big for its britches, wants you to stop seeing those other boys. You tell Tuesday that you wish they wouldn’t scream, but all at once you’re out the door and the windows shatter. Tuesday is saying that you can’t come back, but you know they’ll be there again, always, bringing you roses that still have their thorns. 3. Wednesday is a tough guy, something out of Hollywood sweatshops. You ride on the back of his motorcycle and tell him to tattoo your name on his thigh; he agrees, says he’ll show you next week. It’s what he said the week before — Wednesday can never keep his promises, but you love that worn-out Harley and the way your mother won’t speak to you anymore. Useless Wednesday, all big-talk, loud-mouth, love-hard leather. All aching-jaw, split-lip accident. 4. Thursday is your neighbor, bakes a pie for your parents the day before prom. Little boy with bow-tie dreams — you kiss him outside when he doesn’t ask to come in, let him pretend not to want you. Thursday won’t touch you without permission, tucks you into bed at night. Thursday breaks down when he tries to drive you home, tells horror stories about his time in San Francisco. Thursday doesn’t call you again, Christ, you can’t even remember his name. 5. Friday gets you drunk, finds you reeling. You and Friday cut off your hair in a stranger’s bathroom, play battleships with your hearts. You sink her submarine, but she’s already got a hand on your thigh driving you crazy. Friday only lies to you, leaves during the night to let you wake up alone, but she puts water and an Advil on the bedside table, and that’s all you can ask for after puking red on her best blouse last night. Friday disappears so kindly from your life. Friday wears a new face every time. 6. Saturday is lazy, wears your underwear and won’t wash the dishes. Your friends say that you could do so much better, but you don’t want to. You hide under dirty sheets, fall asleep and wake up ravenous. Nobody knows you as well as Saturday, knows how you nurse the wounds that Tuesday left. Saturday never shaves, never worries about you leaving because you cling like moss to that monochrome evening of Jack Daniels and ripped Band Aids. Saturday is a touchstone, even though she isn’t safe. 7. Sunday was a virgin when you started seeing them. They still wear white and their chastity ring, fold your name up between hymnal sheets and then kiss you in the confessional booth — Sunday likes to think there are times God isn’t looking. Sunday hefts a casket on one broad shoulder and slips you the freshest lily, meets you in the pews at noon to make fake love, to finger the bruises and say they’ll always be with you. Sunday leaves an aching hole when they walk out the door. Sunday hurts the worst of all.

There’s an old Jewish story that says in the beginning God was everywhere and everything, a totality. But to make creation, God had to remove Himself from some part of the universe, so something besides Himself could exist. So He breathed in, and in the places where God withdrew, there creation exists. “So God just leaves?” No. He watches. He rejoices. He weeps. He observes the moral drama of human life and gives meaning to it by caring passionately about us, and remembering.“ Matthew ten, verse twenty-nine: Not one sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it.” But the sparrow still falls.