june 25th

I woke up. Pried open my eyelids
lash by lash. The sun was out. My skin
shimmered thick in the heat. Left
sticky footprints on the kitchen tile.
Breakfast stuck to the roof of my
mouth, everything tastes slick
and burnt. Asphalt for lunch.
Rubber skid marks off the road
for dinner. My fingerprints
whorled black on silverware,
toothbrush and doorknob.
I pulled the curtains shut
with a smear. My new cocoon
flakes off in the bath, tiny
black piece by piece. I can
almost feel water. Almost
sleep.