the 28th summer

In May I thought I'd die  

but like Gloria, I grew strong

I learned how to get along.

I rode my bicycle to the sea and watched the sun rise.

I meditated. I sang. I breathed heavy and listened to every sound.

As the stangers and me plunged our bodies 

into the cold blue water, I started to leave you behind. 

When the cut was still fresh and the flesh pink, 

a few angels found me and dressed my wounds. 

They offered me precious gifts in 

female friendship and unexpected bliss.

We licked magic off our fingers 

and danced until our necks begged for mercy. 

Lovers started to come and go,

sweaty skin following the beat of electric sounds.

Chaotic and unperfect.

Around late June, freedom started to become a promise, 

and I went back to the sea several times to open my hands and leave you 

underwater. 

But just as I started to breathe pure air, 

you fought and kicked and popped up 

again,

and again. 

When the season reached its peak, 

I'd eat beefsteak tomatoes like apples and swear at the sun. 

On the 1st of August, I turned in my key to control 

because playing Whac-A-Mole when the Mole is a Narcassist 

is fundamentally impossible. 

I ran outside with the angels and made my mission, me. 

I smoked weed out the window and wrote poetry in my dreams. 

The heat enveloped everyone and we were tired of a city on fire.

Rain came and washed you away again, 

and again. 

A gracious offering, 

I smiled at the greyness. 

Now I walk over your footprints and feel lighter

Waves soften rocks to pebbles

and breaths become less strained.

The body you broke found out how to heal itself, 

candlelight in every dark night,

peacefully at home, peacefully alone.