It is that kind of summer when all your fucks and waste and wading hang out and you are being swallowed half way and sucked on the rest you are returning spit and there is a quilt that don’t get as dark as the black comforter your mama threw away there are shared jars of pickles and you are trying not to kick the part of your childhood that made it bearable curled up at your feet you are finally roaming around neighborhoods your nana warned you about and finding things she was afraid would make you hold your breath too long let the laughter out so some air can get in

baby

trash music summer Lloyd attempts a comeback and you yearn you build a shrine out of getting to your aunt’s house the next major street over and sometimes settling in the bed in your nana’s den it is a too-hot-to-be-alone summer one where it unfurls your hands and you visit used bookstores with your mama which you never thought she would do and your relationship is not how it was when you were 4 and best friends but she is with you in the shit and no one else could be this still and such a paragon of peace.

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