The trees swell.  And the clouds are fat like spoiled children.  The day boils and my arm hangs listlessly out the window of the car.  Oil stains shimmer.  And a dog in the shadow of the house waits, still, tongue wet and glistening.

“Get out of the car, Junebug. I’m sorry.”

“Go to hell,” I whisper.

“You can’t sit there in this heat all day.  You’ll fry.  Come inside right now.”

But I sit, and sit.  And watch the bruises blossom.  Until the night follows.  And the call of crickets makes it easier to breathe.



  1. Shees, Dolce. Just Shees. I’m really happy you’re writing here.

  2. Me too. Really awesome to read your words here. It has been a while.

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