Sunshine [a poem]

spilling my guts but not feeling it. my truth comes out dry

like chapped lips. do they notice? 52 weeks in a year and

this is the only one i’m sick as a dog.

only time of year

i drink everyday. i’m expected to perform. to connect

and be interested in

all the silly things people talk about. i wish

i could be like you, air. but my palms are fire:

roaring and complex.

people like my warmth but don’t get too close.

i burn everything i touch.

how does one light up the sky without burning down the village?

how does the sun

laugh?