Dry Heating

I consider the summer
a personal attack on my body.
Pink swells rise to the surface like
scum at the edge of polluted seas
before caking crisp and peeling
around my shoulders and across
the bridge of my nose.

Freckles group in conspiracy circles
beneath eyes red with allergies to the air;
thick with flying specks of vehemence
and dusted heavy with a lack of moisture.
Everything condensed into the huge,
deceptive, marshmallow clouds of movie scenes and
cinematic dreams but not quite the same when
your eyes close half blind in protest and
you need to sign a peace treaty to convince them
to undo.

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