Every year without fail, I find myself in the swampy thicket of July--pulled under by the warm gooey sludge of sitting water. I suffocate. My sorrow becomes heavy and I waste away between my unforgivingly stiff cotton sheets that chafe my legs as I reposition myself to bear the external heat. Not even my little home can shelter me.
Still houses align themselves along the stark, searing, asphalt streets that wind throughout my neighborhood. Front porches faint in the noon-day stifling. Flags hang stiff: As unmoving as a photograph--monotony. I pray for pauses between boredom where I might hear static. I am even more uncomfortable to find fallouts of sorrow. I sink beneath. It is hard to breathe. It is always so difficult to breathe.
I am thirsty for things that only make me feel worse.
Last night, I had a dream I went to your wedding. The neckline of your bride's dress was scalloped. Pearlescent white beads glistened in the June sun. Her slender, ivory back peeked through the sheer lace that met tool at her waistline. I melted in a chair on the 8th row. I wore a lavender blazer and pencil skirt--a signature plum hat. Sweat trickled from my hairline, made streams along my temples, down the sides of my cheeks. Makeup coated the fingertips of my white gloves as I attempted to wipe it away. My stomach hurt. I wondered why it had to end this way.
But she was beautiful.
As the vows began, my hair fell. Trying to subtly fix it, I noticed my face liquifying into a pool of oil on the ground. I tried to collect my skin. My fuchsia lips streamed down my face--sat whole beneath me in the creamy puddle at my feet.
Voiceless.
Unnoticed.
In isolation.
I am an island whose
Water offers no relief.
I am a translucent fog:
The remnants
And
Risings
Of an unforgiving
Tennessee heat.
