sick of summer
I’m sick of summer, the sticky skin and the sweaty sheets. I’m tired of competing with the din of the air conditioner and of listening to stories about trips to nearby shores I have or haven’t heard of. The sounds of summer are starting to grate, the kids shrieking through sprinklers and the announcement of the ice cream man as he circles my block and your block and every block; can’t he tell we’re not interested?
I’m tired of shaving and swimsuits and sunscreen, sick of days so long they stretch out for miles. I’m sick of looking at my shadow and thinking about my body and I’m tired of you looking at it. I’m tired of the dresses and how they cling to my torso like wet newspaper or blow in the hot thick wind, revealing all my secrets. I’m bored with showing my toes, bored with giving everything away.
I’m sick of watching the shirts with sleeves hang lonesome in my closet, I want to put them on and let you take them off. I want to wear the kinds of things that don’t slip off in an instant, the kinds of things with zippers and buttons and layers and depth. I want to feel soft, I want the comfort of a comforter, I want to spend Saturdays in bed with all the windows open.
I want to spend Sundays in cars with the windows open, too, driving to fields where apples and pumpkins grow. I want to taste the thick of fall in my mouth, in pies and brews and hot coffee. I want confusion over whether or not to wear a jacket and confusion over what hue that tree was three weeks ago, I want everything to change so that I can feel like there’s reason to be alert, like there’s a reason to wake up again.
Because I’m sick of waking up and going to work and being reminded that summer is just summer and not ~!SUMMER!~. I want the feeling of going Back To Something, the feeling that something has moved or morphed even if it’s just the pigment of the leaves or the size of my jeans. I’m sick of the stifling summer, its constant heat and relentless greens. All I want is fall, so I can pretend a drop in temperature and a shift in color means things will be different from here on out.
(found here)
I’m tired of shaving and swimsuits and sunscreen, sick of days so long they stretch out for miles. I’m sick of looking at my shadow and thinking about my body and I’m tired of you looking at it. I’m tired of the dresses and how they cling to my torso like wet newspaper or blow in the hot thick wind, revealing all my secrets. I’m bored with showing my toes, bored with giving everything away.
I’m sick of watching the shirts with sleeves hang lonesome in my closet, I want to put them on and let you take them off. I want to wear the kinds of things that don’t slip off in an instant, the kinds of things with zippers and buttons and layers and depth. I want to feel soft, I want the comfort of a comforter, I want to spend Saturdays in bed with all the windows open.
I want to spend Sundays in cars with the windows open, too, driving to fields where apples and pumpkins grow. I want to taste the thick of fall in my mouth, in pies and brews and hot coffee. I want confusion over whether or not to wear a jacket and confusion over what hue that tree was three weeks ago, I want everything to change so that I can feel like there’s reason to be alert, like there’s a reason to wake up again.
Because I’m sick of waking up and going to work and being reminded that summer is just summer and not ~!SUMMER!~. I want the feeling of going Back To Something, the feeling that something has moved or morphed even if it’s just the pigment of the leaves or the size of my jeans. I’m sick of the stifling summer, its constant heat and relentless greens. All I want is fall, so I can pretend a drop in temperature and a shift in color means things will be different from here on out.
(found here)