On the ledge of my kitchen, my marigolds die from the heat. (Crumpled bouquets of papered-orange splintering from the weight of too-long days.)
This will likely shatter my bones, too.
(Please save all the pieces. Give them away. May the sharp of me be used to pick the locks, and free the people.)
I am tired when I wash the outcry of marigolds down the sink. I am tired when I press my finger against the flow. I am tired when I drown their kin in my best imitation of a sink-water summer storm.
I need a drenching, too. I need a shower. I need a minute. I need a friend to call. I will need a friend to call.
I will need someone to hear me when I am burned by what I thought would nourish me. I will need someone to feed me when I reach for light.
I will need someone to see me when I lose.
There is a poem inside this life. (May you will find it when I leave, and wash it lovingly away.)