This summer is spent wishing tomorrow won’t feel heavy again but finding that today always does, the heat always wins the ever-repeating fight. This summer is seeping along the grooves of my brain; an invasive vine, curling and crinkling, filling up the gaps inside my head with its gnarled arms and oily leaves, choking out the life with pervasive, incestuous growth. This summer is me weeping because I don’t know how to feel pain. This summer is the world whispering, refraining, keening: “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know” because we don’t and we know.
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