There's a coat rack in the corner, unmoving. Brown tweeds have sat there for weeks.
Outside, the world is burning. Unbreathable. Unlovable.
Outside. The air hits like a wall, cells commit to osmosis and are stuck in the in-between.
It is summer days like this which amaze me.
I lay in bed, naked. Sunlight, filtered through curtains kiss the skin on my feet,
And the radio in the corner fizzles out like a firework, one boom of the announcer's voice
And then nothing.
It takes four to six weeks for a cicada to die once they emerged from the ground.
It has been longer since the tweeds have left their spot. Velvets and nylon jackets are left behind too.
It's too warm outside, the air is unlovable. I cannot breathe on my own planet.
I lay in bed, naked, I stand in the shower as lukewarm water runs down my muted skin.
I cannot speak, for if I open my mouth the water will find my lungs.
I lay in bed. Naked. My top bunk looms over me like a monster, threatening to break the steel supports
And land on me, crushing me. The most beautiful suicide in reverse,
Without the car to drive.
McHale would be disappointed in me.
The coat rack looms in the corner, too. Threatening to stay still,
It's feet are rooted down into the floorboards which creak.
Empty threats lead to empty words. I lay still.
I wish I owned a clock, an analogue clock would be less than ideal but I would take it,
Hours are sure to pass by like lead weights in a pond,
Days stretch out like my fingers at my sides,
I wonder if I have felt the passing time of a year? I'm sure my body has.
The summer is endless. Unlovable. Unbreathable.
YOU ARE READING
Peach Pits
Poetry"He wants to do a line of cocaine off of my bare chest," A debut poetry collection concerning the ideas of falling in love and falling out of love, even if the object of affection is oneself. "His lips are soft, peach pits and pink, with a stubbled...
