Elegy For A Dying Summer
We were all withering by August, but I should have known we would be. Our roots ran too deep into the ground, trying to pull something from the cracked earth that wasn’t there.
We were whiskey tongued and vicious most of the time, but there were long nights when we’d all stay home and lock the front door. We kept our cruelness for the outside world; we cared for each other.
We weren’t together all the time, not all of us. Sometimes I would walk home in the dead of night and feel like the only person who ever felt hollow.
We kept our mouths covered with the mouths of bodies whose names we hardly knew. Everything felt like collateral damage; everything felt less important than it was.
We sat on floors almost everywhere we went, unconcerned and laughing. We pulled everyone down with us.
We were conspiratorial, keeping secrets locked behind clenched teeth and knives hidden in the folds of our short dresses and in the pockets of our best slacks.
We hardly slept and we always drank and we sometimes cried. We were careless, all of us, but we knew we couldn’t stay like this forever.
We were restless, our sleeping fingers pushing away anyone who tried to sleep beside us. I don’t think we wanted to be loved at all.
We came away with scars that faded into nothing before we could explain them to anyone. Lovers would one day press their lips to our fingertips and never know we’d bled at all.
We were all inked up by August and I know there was something wrong with us. We were pressing permanence into our skin in a place we’d only ever wanted to burn to the ground.