still spinning, rubber flapped wheels
Things that make me feel tired:
1. the slows of the elevator at work, lurching one measured distance at a groan
2. heat everywhere, skin slicked and dribbled as summer slots into the year
3. the vog, mix of volcanic ash suspended far enough to evade my hand pushing it away
4. strangers approaching with terrible pick-up lines, not realizing that by doing so, they are spraying a sriracha-filled gun into the eyes of a livid bear
5. bringing a cup to my lips, discovering how quickly a liquid can vanish
6. stilled figures of the sand lapped by tide and foam, melted into a lump of was
7. my boss’ shrill voice telling me “does that make sense?” or “you know what I mean?”
8. what curdles in me at the nag of small talk poking me from the side
9. someone’s perfume cloyed, lingering after they’re gone, the pinch between eyes
10. that any good act stacks like jenga towards the expectation of sex
11. the hot water tap functions. it is the hottest it will ever be. it’s not hot enough.
13. someone’s crunch, clack, click incessantly beating crooked, long; no silence, no peace.
art by singh-bean