400 °C

I'm sitting at the kitchen table
feeling my skin turn into crust.

Today, I am smouldering charcoal.

Surprised at the sight of simmering skin
that fights to escape
the skirt, the bra, the sandal
I run my hands down the
sides of my body,
wiping away the sweat.

Scooping my hair up with my palms,
I attach it with a
little
plastic
clip.

I touch my neck.

Now, it feels like summer.

It is midday, and the scorching streets are deserted.
People, like lizards, are hiding.
It's dead quiet. Only the last brave cicadas are still breathless
for love.

I hear the sweat beads being born like honeydew,
trickling bedrowsed down my bare back.
Opening little mouths for air,
they struggle to fly and
drip
to the floor, steaming.

I put some Lana on
cause she knows how I'm burning.
I stare at her lips on my laptop screen
and reach for the fridge.

Ice cubes tinkering in glass
I pour out some rose cordial.

I don't wanna answer my phone
or see anyone.
Don't wanna go to the beach.
Just want to sit on this chair and
wait for something to change, smoking one after another.

Please, throw me some water and kill this unborn flame
or feed me with oxygen till I burst into fire!

This inbetween is addictively unbearable.

I dip my fingers in the rose drink:
I fish out an ice-cube,
let it run down my shoulder, seething.


I can almost hear it whistle with liquid pain.





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