Though summer is poisonous, like a girl, it's sweet on the tongue. You dream of rusted pliers and fields of wilting lavender, a woman in a white dress offering you a peach and crying. I was a vape mistress, all slut mouth, my mind trembling with rooms full of dead raccoons and cicadas. Our Father. The horrible impossible yearnings, they never cease. By day you dream of getting free, the hem in your pink dress unraveling and sticky. Ache to make something lovely out of the longing. The world like a silent film, gone staticky. The way it all stops, so suddenly, without warning. Hush. Hush. Float through the days in anonymous, quiet sadness. There is no relief.