august
It is august. I am warm, melting, honey-dipped from 5am until the evening comes out to play. August is my birthday month, so I am usually all balloons and sing a longs, licking strawberry icing off of my top lip. I am also covered in hay-fever, and bumblebees, and all the things that make me itch until I shed my summer skin. Somewhere inside me I feel a lion buried and remember I am a summer baby, but I am pining for the cold to bite me, sink me, tie me to a tree. I do not want to get lost in the orchard. I so do not want to feel my throat swell with flowers. I do not want to become a petal mouth, soaked in pollen, a hive, a loud and unmistakable set of wings. I do not want to taste my sweat in the air. I am too translucent for summer. My eyes are too blue. My whole body blushes when the sun tries to tell me how beautiful I am, and I have to find the shade, a shadow, to wrap me up and put me to sleep. I want to hibernate. I want august to come back another day, another year, another lifetime where perhaps I am a tiny green caterpillar who will become the world’s most beautiful butterfly. I will be famous. I will feed of the light and I will become an exhibit. It is august. It is my birthday. Happy birthday, peach face, honey girl, bumblebee.
i am trying to write more. find me and tell me what it is i’m doing wrong.
