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Mama must be wrong when she told me a nursery rhyme coming from the American Psychiatric Society. It started with a saying that Monday’s child is fair of face. Truly, I’d agree. Then, Tuesday’s child is full of grace. Of course, I’d agree too. Because I am not the only one who is a Tuesday’s child.
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But I wouldn’t agree on that for myself.
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I am woe, cursed, and hated. It is almost like everyone wanted me dead — in my head, of course. So then, when we met, please don’t look at my arms, wrist, and neck. Cause there, you will never find grace.
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Like words of doom carved on the wall, it is what I’ve been calling scenery. But I am not a scenic picture people will be so fond of. Contrary wise people despise me— in my head, of course. So then, I hurt myself again. To please them. To prove them that the Wednesday’s child is not full of woe.
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I have been so alive, I breathe, and I can feel things whenever I grasp them in my palms. I can even tell that such ugly emotions are clutched deep down beneath my heart. Such ugly emotions that shouted “love me,” and “fill me up with love.” However, love is for no one to tame.
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So I give up on it, on living.
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I have never been spared so far I walked. So Monday’s child, be happy for the fairest face. Tuesday’s child, keep up your head. Wednesday’s child, hang on there a little bit more. Thursday’s child, may your path be blessed. Friday’s child, don’t give up on loving. Saturday’s child, your hard work will always be paid off. Sunday’s child, smile brighter.
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For me, nobody’s son nor daughter, nobody’s child, may I rest in peace with this knife piercing through my body.
