summer rots in your chest like
a pomegranate, like
lacerations in the myocardium, like
the grinding pain in your knees when you run

summer falls asleep in july, in august:
september is creeping ivy and
overgrowth, wood splintering underneath your skin, ripping through subcutaneous tissue, your tongue is heavy in your mouth

too heavy to whisper,
too heavy to scream.
the exhale:
CAN ANYONE HEAR ME THIS TIME

summer is a gaping wound
with no scar tissue and no healing
in the winter:
sub-zero temperatures and
playing pretend, fallen snow and constellations
summer rots under your fingernails
and you are no longer beautiful, just
yourself.

the inhale:
IS THERE ANYONE LEFT TO LISTEN

summer is dried out cherry pits summer-stained, red teeth
you eat, but every bite is ultraviolet years without sunscreen,
you understand there is cancer
lying under your skin, waiting
you eat what the others did not want
cleaning up the leftover of thrown up gluttony, their nauseous lust
it tastes like sidewalk chalk.

the exhale:
no one can hear me this time
the inhale:
there is no one left to listen

but you’re asthmatic and you’ve never been great at breathing
you take your inhaler.