August

AUGUST

by Hannah Danielle

(Content warnings: violence, implied sexual assault, stabbing)

Warm out tonight. Nearly 30, but of
    course that’s different in America.
    The sun bites me, a rabid animal
    escaping a muzzle, all grandiosity
    and meaningless gestures, but still a
    bite nonetheless.

A bite is a bite is a bite. Is a bite.

July punctuated my heart. She knocked
    me out like a quitting employee to a
    time-clock, a backstab to the
    chest, dear. I was a starfish pariah,
    spread between a delicious, ugly
    faith, and the knowledge that
    everything was falling slowly, that
    this grey nothingness wasn’t only
    mine to hold. Cherry and ginger.
    Clove. My spit-wet cigarette.

The summer could not last forever.
    August drags things out; she’s a
    dirty fuck and a worse card player.
    Cheater. Angel of insomnia. I sit at
    the table and play Solitaire. It can’t
    last forever. Old scars itch. Vermouth
    in a pickle jar, soap shavings from
    Vermont. A bite is a bite. I’m
    waiting. I will wait.