summer, so far, has been unseasonably warm. you exist

mostly in goosebumps and times new roman font,

which is to say writing feels like an air conditioned room.

already, i have exhausted melodrama in a series of <3’s,

expounded the body into various metaphors. today, i’m

dousing stale air in sage green vanilla sugar moon dust.

i swallow enough queer to drown at pride in a sea of rainbow

and rebrand shoegaze as shoe-gays. see asap rocky: i love

bad b*tches, i got a f*ckin problem. i rabbit-crouch and crack

pistachio shells, lob them gently at the heads of gentrifying

culture vultures and unsuspecting tourists. the city teems

with slightly-too-much life, including but not limited to

millions of unidentifiable microorganisms on every single

subway pole, glowing a sickly green hue. reminiscent of

the tub of pistachio gelato gone rotten in the back of your

freezer, behind five types of veggie burgers and the ice

you pressed to my forehead when i toppled from the ferris

wheel, fought the underpaid attendant over a refund. i am

here now to say it wasn’t your fault. i tried to kiss the sky

and it twisted away into a bruised sunset. nothing but tears,

or water-color perspiration, all blackblue-purplepink.