Whatever happened to Saturday?

On Sunday, I lay awake and had
an existential exodus.
"i don't exist." I told you.
You punched me in the face.
It didn't hurt, because it wasn't real;
like the square root of minus two.

On Monday, I arranged cold cups
of tea in concentric circles.
and rang you forty two times
to tell you
"life is suffering."
but it sent me straight to voicemail.

On Tuesday, I tried again.
And played the violin badly.
Because that seemed like the right
thing to do
at the time.

On Wednesday, I broke the toaster.
Although, it was only the idea of the toaster
that was broken.
So that was alright.

On Thursday, I broke myself.

And
on Friday:
I ran
out of mugs
and waited

for you
to come
home.