May by Sloane Burpo

May

By Sloane Burpo

It is stuck to my skin on the walk out the school— A thick, sweaty reminder of summer fast approaching. It is not just any spring. It is spring in Texas. It is wilting on the bus ride home. It is your laughing bus driver with apparently no one else to talk to. It is PRACTICALLY-summer-we-just-can’t-SAY-it-yet—

It is dragging me through the door for three more weeks. It is the last show of the season. It is final projects, final reviews, final notice— PLEASE-make-sure-ALL-your-work-is-turned-in-REMEMBER-your-FINALEXAMS-only-count-for-FIFTHTEEN-PERCENT-of-your-final-grade—

It is the last week. It is lunchroom chatter. It is UGH-I-can’t-WAIT-for-this-to-be-OVER-EXAMS-have-been-KICKING-my— It is summer plans. It is fourth period I-can’t-TAKE-anyMORE-of-this— It is short goodbyes, as if we’ll see each other next week. It is a long, late Texas spring dripping into a long, lonely Texas summer. It is the first of many times you text ___________________ ( hey u free this weekend ) \/ And it is the first of many times they respond _____________________________ ( omg i wish i could :*[ im going 2b on ) vacation 4 the next 2 weeks \/

And so it goes. The rot begins.